At first, it was leftovers, then warm meals I made with her in mind. For four years, I delivered her plate every single day. My neighbors would watch, puzzled, whispering among themselves. To them, she was a burden. To me, she was a reminder of humanity’s test: how we treat those who can give us nothing in return.She never asked for more than what I brought. Yet in her silence, I found gratitude, and in her frailty, I found strength. What began as an act of kindness became a ritual that nourished me as much as it did her.Yesterday, she died. The street felt heavier, emptier, as though the world had lost something sacred and unnoticed. Later that evening, I received a call from an unknown number. My hands trembled as I answered.
