I didn’t recognize his face that night, but the date he’d written hit me like a siren in the dark. That stormy afternoon in the café had blurred into the background of my life: a spare coffee, a pastry, a soft smile offered to a stranger I never expected to see again. For him, it was the day the world loosened its grip on his throat. Hearing Victor describe that second cup of coffee—years later by the shawarma stand—as the moment he chose not to give up made me feel as if someone had quietly been keeping score of the times I tried to be decent.
Helping him find shelter, documents, and work didn’t feel heroic. It felt like finishing a sentence I’d started years before. When he knocked on my door a year later, cake in hand, shoulders steady, eyes clear, I realized something I’d only ever hoped was true: kindness doesn’t disappear. It travels, it circles, it waits for the right moment to return and look you in the eye.
