She turned, smiling like this was normal. “Oh, Henry. You’re back. I just tidied up a bit. Feels good to have my own space again.”

I stared, my pulse racing. “Who… who are you?”

“Fine. If you really want to know, I used to be a professor—English literature. I had a family once. My parents d.i.e.d in a car crash. And later… I had my husband and my son. Jack and David.”

Her voice grew quieter. “David was sixteen. One night, we went out for ice cream. There was a robbery—chaotic, senseless. The gunman fired wildly. Jack was hit. And then… David.”

Silence filled the space between us.

“After that, I just stopped. Stopped being anything. I lost my job. My home. My purpose.”

“That’s… unimaginable,” I whispered.

As time passed, Dorothy started to open up. Within months, she found work at the library. A year later, she had a small apartment of her own.

And in that moment, I understood—sometimes, all it takes is one act of kindness. Someone who truly sees you and reminds you: You are worth saving.