During a sudden flood, my home filled with water, forcing me and my kids, Liam and Nora, upstairs. With no power and a dead phone, I was terrified. A man in a yellow coat appeared, wading through waist-deep water to rescue us, carrying the kids to a boat and ensuring our safety before vanishing back into the flood. At a shelter, no one knew him, though an older woman mentioned he’d saved a neighbor’s dog. Returning home, I found large muddy footprints, likely his, leading to a broken window. Weeks later, at my sister’s, a neighbor revealed the
house next door, where he’d gone, was empty since a fire. A mysterious crayon drawing from my kids thanked him. He later helped repair our home, but left without a goodbye or his name. Months later, when Nora was hospitalized, he checked on her, leaving a note and a fireman’s badge. Though I never learned his name, his quiet kindness—rescuing us, fixing our home, checking on Nora—showed that compassion doesn’t need recognition.
