Twenty years ago, I never thought of myself as brave. I wasn’t trying to change anyone’s life—I only wanted to do what seemed right. That night, a storm raged outside, battering the streets with rain and thunder, and I was at home, waiting for my tea to boil. Then came a knock at the door, faint and uncertain. When I opened it, a man nearly collapsed into my arms, soaked and shivering, his clothes torn and heavy with water. He looked at me with hollow eyes and whispered, “Please… I just need help.” In that moment, all hesitation disappeared. I brought him inside, wrapped him in towels, gave him dry clothes and hot soup, and let him rest on my couch while the storm passed. His name was James, and though he spoke little, his gratitude was quiet but profound.
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