I HELPED A HOMELESS MAN FIX HIS SHOES OUTSIDE A CHURCH — 10 YEARS LATER, A POLICEMAN CAME TO MY HOUSE WITH HIS PHOTO

It was bitterly cold, the kind that seeped into your bones. I had just finished my errands when I decided to step into the church for a moment of reflection. That’s when I saw him—sitting on the church steps, hatless, his hands trembling as he struggled to fix his falling-apart shoes.

I couldn’t walk past. Something about him struck a chord.

“Let me help you,” I said, crouching beside him. He looked up, his tired, bloodshot eyes meeting mine—still holding a spark of hope. I fastened his shoes, wrapped my scarf around his shoulders, and brought him hot soup and tea from a nearby café.

“Here,” I said, handing him the food. I scribbled my address on a scrap of paper. “If you ever need a place or someone to talk to, reach out.”

He nodded, silent. I walked away, thinking I probably would never see him again.

Ten years passed. Life was ordinary—work, friends, family, routines. One evening, as I sat at home sipping tea, there was a knock on the door. When I opened it, a policeman stood before me holding the photograph of the homeless man I’d helped on those church steps a decade earlier.