I resided there three weeks. I carried grief like wet clothing after a rain. Our life together was gone, as was my spouse. I could only afford this poor, chilly, broken flat because medical costs had stolen everything except the necessities.
Streets were unwelcoming. It stared at me strangely. Graffiti raged. The sirens sung nightly.
That day arrived.
He caught my attention as I searched for my keys with two grocery bags in each hand.
Big. Towering. Built like a stadium guard, not someone traversing a broken sidewalk in a beat-up tank top and brick-crushing sneakers. Both arms had spiral tattoos.
I froze. My heart hit my ribs.
Heading straight toward me.
Holding my handbag closer. Battle or flight no longer seemed theoretical. Braced.
But his speech halted everything.
Are you okay, ma’am? His deep, steady voice was surprisingly kind.
Swallowed. Despite my instincts, I spoke the truth.
“I feel unsafe here.”
For illustration only.
He hesitated. He looked around like he understood me. Once, he nodded.
“Most do not. I walk because of it. People like you aren’t alone.”
He grabbed one of my bags like it was nothing and yelled, “Come on,” before I could answer. Get you home.”
Without explanation. Avoid small conversation. A calm presence.
At my doorstep, I said, “Why do you do this?”
He grinned tiredly. Since someone walked with my mom. Changed her life. Changed mine.”
He went before I could thank him.
I left the blinds half-open that night.
A brown paper bag with a message from Miss Anita’s landed on my doorstep in the morning. Start with peach scones.”
Inside: three pastries. Still warm.
No name. I didn’t need one.
He appeared often in the days that followed. Helping an elderly guy move groceries. Skateboarding teens high-fiving. Pulling two guys apart outside the booze shop without consideration.
She at the corner shop was asked who he was.
A warm grin appeared as she rang me up. That’s Marcus. His sister lives two blocks away. Solid person. That one’s burned.”
“What kind fire?” Asking carefully.
She dropped her voice. He lost his father young. Got into terrible company as a teen. Lost himself almost. He reversed it. Studying at night, working at the leisure center, and holding this block together.”
That night, I made banana bread—my lone successful recipe. Still warm, I walked it to the leisure facility.
He spoke with two teens outdoors. Seeing me, he stood.
“I figured it was you who left the pastries,” I responded, gripping the wrapper.
He chuckled. “Busted.”
“Not fancy. Just thank you.”
He treated the bread so preciously. “Thanks for not prejudging.”
That started it. We chatted more. I heard he was twenty-eight, yet he carried the world like two. His 17-year-old sister Leila wanted to go to college. They protected each other.
Marcus arrived at my home with a toolkit one night.
I saw your porch light flicker. I fixed it before sending.”
I prepared tea as he worked.
He checked in every couple days. I always had something warm ready.
I awakened to yelling one night.
Screaming lady crossing street. Two streetlamp-lit shadows entwined. One held a bottle.
I acted immediately. I phoned Marcus.
He replied promptly.
A battle. “A woman’s yelling,” I murmured, shivering.
“Stay inside,” he urged. I’m coming.”
I saw him calmly enter the pandemonium minutes later. The guy yielded. The lady cried on his shoulder.
She had coffee with Leila on his terrace the following morning.
Marcus helped more than people.
He was reconstructing.
Then—he gone.
A day passed. And another.
Leila arrived to my home with red-rimmed eyes on the third day.
“They jumped him,” she added. “After class. His wallet and phone were stolen. Fought back. They injured him badly.”
My lungs felt emptied.
I delivered banana bread and a little flower to his hospital bed the following day. His arm was slung, face battered. But he grinned at me immediately.
“Guess I’m not invincible,” he laughed, hoarse.
“Marcus… let someone else bear the load.”
He lingered on me. “Who else will?”
That question troubled me.
So I replied.
I walked Miss Clara to the market. Organising a food drive for the unemployed local family. Playground garbage pickup.
I wasn’t Marcus. But I could come.
Soon, others followed.
When teens noticed me, they turned down the music. Tre began walking elderly neighbors’ pets. When Marcus was healing, the street-never-spoke lady cooked soup.
We weren’t ideal.
For illustration only.
At least we tried.
Marcus returned 2 months later. Slower. Still tall.
He said, “You’ve changed this place,” one day.
I said “No,” smiling. “You did. I keep the wheels turning.”
The summer we had a block party. Music. Laughter. Even the landlord came, promising to replace the lights and remove the graffiti.
Marcus ate popsicles and I drank iced tea on my patio later.
I added, “You know, when I moved here, I was scared out of my mind.”
“I remember,” he grinned.
“Now, it feels like home.”
Looked down at his melting popsicle.
“My mom passed five years ago,” he whispered. “She said, ‘We’re not here to survive. Leave things better than we found them.”
A knot formed in my throat. “She’d admire you.”
He nodded slowly. We’d impress her.”
A time after…
College began for Leila. Tre applied to extinguish fires. The neighborhood shop had sunflowers and fruit arrangements in its display.
One afternoon, the landlord’s office phoned.
“We’re reducing your rent by $100,” she stated. “Fewer complaints. More renewals. Continue doing whatever you’re doing.”
Shocked, I laughed. You got it.”
Marcus ran by me outdoors.
“Hey!” I phoned. Free next Saturday?
He slowed. “What’s up?”
“I might hold a sunflower workshop for kids. Planting is their goal.”
He grinned widely. “I’ll bring shovels.”
Looking back…
Never did I think my worst fear would cure me.
But it did.
The solution may not always leave.
It might be being a person who makes a location worth remaining in.
Sometimes hope doesn’t knock.
It carries your groceries with you.
