18/09/2025
Mooi. Dit geeft lucht. Verzachting. Verbinding. Lang leve eerlijke woorden, zinnen, bewegingen. ๐
"My nameโs Kevin. Iโm 66. Live alone on the third floor of a brick apartment building in Seattle. Rainโs been falling for weeks straight, just gray and dripping, like the world forgot how to be sunny. Before I retired from fixing printers, my days had noise, machines humming, people chatting. Now? Just the radiator clicking and my own thoughts. After my divorce 10 years back, I kept to myself. Neighbors said "hi" in the hall, but their eyes stayed distant. We were all just... passing through.
Downstairs, the lobby had this old bulletin board. Yellowed flyers for lost cats, garage sales, and "EVICTED NOTICE" papers. It felt like a graveyard for sad things. One Tuesday, soaked from the rain, I stared at it. Nobody puts up happy news, I thought. So I dug an index card from my pocket, scribbled in shaky letters, "Write one good thing that happened today. No names. Just one sentence." I taped it to the board and walked away, heart pounding. Stupid, I told myself. Peopleโll think Iโm lonely. Or worse crazy.
For three days, nothing. Just my card flapping in the draft from the front door. Mrs. Gable from 2B, who walks with a cane, gave it a confused look. Young couple from 4A snickered. I almost ripped it down.
Then, on Thursday, a new note appeared beside mine. Blue pen, rushed writing,
"My son called. Heโs staying sober."
I read it five times. My throat got tight. Someone else was hurting.... but also hoping.
The next morning, two more,
"Found $20 in my coat pocket. Feels like a gift."
"My neighbor brought me soup. I didnโt ask."
People started stopping by the board. Not smiling, just... pausing. Reading. Sometimes adding their own. A nurse wrote, "Patient held my hand. Said โthank youโ like she meant it." A teenager, "Mom didnโt yell when I burned dinner." One rainy Friday, a single line "I didnโt cry in the shower today."
It wasnโt grand. No heroes. Just tiny lights in the gray. But something shifted. In the elevator, people didnโt just stare at the floor numbers. Mrs. Gable nodded at me. The young couple said "rough weather" instead of nothing. I even brought her a spare umbrella when I saw her struggling with her groceries.
Then Mr. Henderson, the building manager, tore my card down. "Rules, Kevin," he said, not unkindly. "No postings without permission. Landlordโs orders." The board went back to lost cats and eviction notices. The light faded. People stopped pausing. The hallway felt colder.
I was putting my recycling out when I saw it. Taped to my door, a sticky note. "Your umbrella saved me. -5C" Below it, another, "My chemo wasnโt so bad today."
The next day, notes were everywhere. On mailbox doors. Taped to elevator buttons. Slipped under car wipers in the parking lot. Someone even wrote on the back of an eviction notice, "Got a job interview tomorrow. Fingers crossed."
Mr. Henderson found me. "Kevin.... this is against the rules," he mumbled, but he wasnโt looking at me. He was reading a note stuck to his clipboard, "Thanks for fixing my sink, Mr. H. It meant a lot." His eyes got shiny. He cleared his throat. "Landlord says.... as long as itโs not damaging, maybe.... just this board?" He pointed to the bulletin board. "But only this board. And no names."
Now? That boardโs alive. Rain or shine, people add their line. "My plants didnโt die!" "Made it through the grocery line without panic." "Saw a robin. Springโs coming."
I donโt feel alone in the hallways anymore. We donโt hug or throw parties. But when itโs pouring, and Mrs. Gableโs cane slips, three hands reach out at once. When the young couple argues, someone leaves a bag of cookies at their door. Weโre not fixing the whole world. Just this building. Just today.
Last week, a new note appeared. Different handwriting, shaky like mine,
"I was going to end it today. Then I read this board. Thank you."
We never found who wrote it. But the next day, two more notes were added,
"You matter."
"Weโre here."
Thatโs all. Just words on paper. But sometimes, thatโs enough to hold someone up. Sometimes, the bravest thing isnโt a big speech, itโs admitting youโre not "fine," and trusting someone else might be not-fine too. You donโt need a park bench or a fancy project. Just a little space to say, "This was good today."
And maybe.... thatโs how we rebuild the world. One honest sentence at a time."
Let this story reach more hearts...
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By Mary Nelson
