When the flat I was renting was put up for sale, I had to move out. I cleaned it thoroughly before leaving. The next day, my landlady called—not to complain, but to thank me.
Then she asked, “How come you’re not bitter like the others?”
I laughed it off, but her words stayed with me. At the time, I was between jobs, fresh out of a breakup, and moving into a smaller, darker, more expensive place just to get by.
The next morning, I went to a nearby café to apply for gigs and ended up asking if they were hiring. Two days later, I was working there. It wasn’t much, but the place had a strong sense of community.
One rainy day, a regular customer, Mr. Harrington, forgot his umbrella. I chased after him to return it. He smiled like I’d given him something priceless and later began sharing pieces of his memoir with me. I encouraged him—and months later, he got published.
Around the same time, I stopped someone from breaking into a local laundromat. The owner left me pastries with a note: “You look out for people. Now we’ll look out for you.”
A month later, my old landlady called again. The new owner wanted to rent the flat—and offered it back to me at the same price.
Sometimes, it’s the smallest acts—cleaning up, helping someone, showing up—that quietly lead you back home.
