For fifty years, Mrs. Hill lived alone on the eighth floor, quietly, with no visitors, no laughter—just a soft yellow glow each evening. As a child, I noticed her. One day, I left a crayon drawing by her door: a rainbow, stick-figure family, and a note saying, “Have a happy day!” I never saw her face, but I kept leaving small drawings and notes over the years, hoping to bring a little joy to her lonely days.
Years later, back in the building as an adult, I learned she had passed. At her apartment, I found every drawing I had ever left—framed, preserved, cherished. Pressed flowers, notes, everything. A letter revealed her truth: she had no family, no children, and my drawings had been her daily reason to smile.
Standing there, surrounded by the evidence of my childhood kindness, I realized how profoundly small acts can impact someone’s life. Mrs. Hill had been lonely, but my simple gestures had filled her world with warmth.
Now, I keep one of those drawings by my door as a reminder: kindness, no matter how small, leaves a lasting mark.