I never intended to live there—it wasn’t a decision made with hope. It was one made out of necessity.
Only three weeks had passed since my husband died, and I was already buried beneath a mountain of bills I couldn’t pay. Rent, funeral expenses, medical debt—they all stacked up until I had nothing left but a suitcase and a lease for a cramped apartment in a neighborhood people only mentioned in whispers.
The rent was suspiciously cheap. I didn’t take long to understand why.
The day I moved in, a man crossed the street toward me—broad frame, tattooed arms, worn-out sneakers hitting the pavement with purpose. My pulse jumped. I froze.
Then he spoke.
“You okay, ma’am?”
His voice was deep, calm, unexpectedly gentle.
“I… I don’t feel safe here,” I said, surprising even myself with the honesty.
He scanned the street, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. A lotta folks don’t. That’s why I stick around. So people like you don’t have to walk alone.”
Without another word, he picked up one of my bags and walked beside me to the door. No chatter. No pretense. Just quiet, steady help.
