On the train, a man wouldn’t stop staring. I got off early. Minutes later, my husband called in a panic: “Go back now!”
At the station, the man was gone—but a little girl in a pink jacket was crying behind a vending machine, clutching a stuffed lion. A bystander whispered, “That’s the Amber Alert kid.”
They said I’d saved her. Days later, her aunt knocked on my door. The man on the train was her father—he’d believed I was the one who would find Lina. He died the next night, still saying my name.
I never understood why he trusted me. But I started paying attention—to strangers, to moments that felt small but weren’t.
Sometimes, we’re just meant to be there.
