For half a century, Mrs. Hill lived alone on the eighth floor—quiet, unnoticed, with no visitors and no laughter, just the gentle glow of her lamp each night. As a child, I was aware of her solitude. One day, I slipped a crayon drawing under her door: a rainbow, a stick-figure family, and a little note that read, “Hope you have a happy day!” I never once saw her face, but I kept leaving tiny drawings and messages throughout my childhood, wishing they might brighten her world.
Years later, when I returned to the building as an adult, I learned she had passed away. Inside her apartment, I discovered every drawing I had ever given her—carefully framed, preserved, treasured. Pressed flowers, notes, all of it. A letter explained what I never knew: she had no family, no children, and my small offerings had been her daily source of joy.
Standing in that room, surrounded by the remnants of my childhood kindness, I understood how deeply simple gestures can touch a life. Mrs. Hill had been lonely, but those small bits of color and care had filled her days with warmth.
Now, I keep one of those old drawings by my own door, a constant reminder that even the smallest kindness can leave an enduring imprint.
