maheydaisy

  Some messages return. Every evening, just before the sun disappeared behind the lake, an old man quietly arrived at the water’s edge. Passersby barely noticed him. Some whispered that he was lonely. Some thought he was strange. But no one knew why he came — he was waiting. He sat on the same wooden bench, reaching into his coat pocket for a small piece of paper. Slowly, deliberately, he folded it into a paper boat. Every fold mattered — because it carried a memory. Once the boat was ready, he walked to the water, knelt, and whispered words only he could hear. Then he let it drift away. Day after day. Season after season. One evening, a curious boy approached. “Why do you do this every day?” he asked. The old man didn’t look up. “My son loved paper boats,” he said softly. “He believed boats could travel to places people can’t.” The boy sat beside him, listening. “What happened to him?” The old man swallowed hard. “He left one morning… never came back. An accident, th...

  I woke up earlier than usual that morning. The world outside was still quiet. No traffic noise. No notifications screaming for attention. Just silence. As I reached for my phone, I noticed a message timestamped at 3:42 a.m. From someone I hadn’t spoken to in a long time. For a moment, I considered ignoring it. Mornings are for peace, I told myself. I’ll read it later. But something felt different. I opened the message. “I don’t need a reply. I just wanted to say thank you — for once believing in me when no one else did.” I sat up straight. Sleep disappeared instantly. Memories rushed in — late-night conversations, unfinished dreams, promises made casually and forgotten quietly. I had no idea my words back then still mattered. We underestimate the weight of small kindnesses. We forget that something ordinary to us can be life-saving to someone else. I typed a reply. Nothing dramatic. Just honesty. “I’m glad you’re still standing.” The reply came seconds ...