Six months after losing my father, I still visited his grave weekly to talk to him. One afternoon, I noticed a blind elderly woman standing alone near a fresh grave. When I offered to walk her home, she gratefully accepted, explaining her sons had forgotten to pick her up after her husband’s funeral.
Kira’s modest home was filled with memories, including a beautiful photo of her and Samuel at the Eiffel Tower. Over tea, she mentioned her husband had installed security cameras because he didn’t trust their sons. Little did I know how significant that detail would become.
The next morning, I awoke to pounding on my door. Kira’s sons stood there with a police officer, accusing me of stealing from their mother. At the station, Kira calmly insisted on checking the security footage – which revealed her sons were the actual thieves, caught red-handed ransacking the house after I left.
In the weeks that followed, Kira and I grew close. “Maybe Samuel sent you to me,” she once said. What began as a simple good deed became an unexpected friendship that helped us both heal.
