18/09/2025
Mooi. Dit geeft lucht. Verzachting. Verbinding. Lang leve eerlijke woorden, zinnen, bewegingen. 💓
"My name’s Kevin. I’m 66. Live alone on the third floor of a brick apartment building in Seattle. Rain’s 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. People’ll think I’m 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. He’s 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 didn’t ask."
People started stopping by the board. Not smiling, just... pausing. Reading. Sometimes adding their own. A nurse wrote, "Patient held my hand. Said ‘thank you’ like she meant it." A teenager, "Mom didn’t yell when I burned dinner." One rainy Friday, a single line "I didn’t cry in the shower today."
It wasn’t grand. No heroes. Just tiny lights in the gray. But something shifted. In the elevator, people didn’t 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. Landlord’s 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 wasn’t 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 wasn’t 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 it’s not damaging, maybe.... just this board?" He pointed to the bulletin board. "But only this board. And no names."
Now? That board’s alive. Rain or shine, people add their line. "My plants didn’t die!" "Made it through the grocery line without panic." "Saw a robin. Spring’s coming."
I don’t feel alone in the hallways anymore. We don’t hug or throw parties. But when it’s pouring, and Mrs. Gable’s cane slips, three hands reach out at once. When the young couple argues, someone leaves a bag of cookies at their door. We’re 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."
"We’re here."
That’s all. Just words on paper. But sometimes, that’s enough to hold someone up. Sometimes, the bravest thing isn’t a big speech, it’s admitting you’re not "fine," and trusting someone else might be not-fine too. You don’t need a park bench or a fancy project. Just a little space to say, "This was good today."
And maybe.... that’s how we rebuild the world. One honest sentence at a time."
Let this story reach more hearts...
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By Mary Nelson
