When I moved out of my old flat, I cleaned it thoroughly. My landlady called—not to complain, but to thank me. “You’re not bitter like the others,” she said. Her words stayed with me. I moved into a darker, pricier flat, broke and heartbroken. At a local café, I overheard they needed help. Two days later, I had a job steaming oat milk.

A kind regular, Mr. Harrington, forgot his umbrella one day. I returned it. He later told me, “If you hadn’t done that, I don’t think I would’ve come back.” We formed a bond. He started writing again, and months later, published a memoir, dedicating it to me: “To the quiet force who reminded me I still had a voice.”