MonaZ

Too often, she reminded herself that when she could not help someone directly, she could still choose to understand.

Understanding, she believed, was the first step toward healing – for the one who listens, and for the one who longs to be heard.

And so, she often returned to that silent inner space, where thoughts argued, and emotions searched for meaning.

You may wonder why…

Life had, in its own way, placed her in the position of a listener.

People spoke to her – not always fully, not always clearly – but enough.

Each person carried a story, just as she did. Stories shaped by circumstance, struggle, and emotions not always visible.

To share a story requires courage. But also timing, trust, and openness of heart.

When someone confided in her, she understood what they were seeking.

Not solutions. Not answers.

But presence.

A place where their words would not be reduced or turned away.

A silent trust, placed into another’s hands.

Through these moments, she learned something words could not teach.

Empathy was not something to perform.

It was something one becomes.

Because behind every action, every silence, every wound – there is always a reason.

Her mother had taught her kindness when she was young.

Not as instruction, but as nature.

It became part of her over time.

There were moments when kindness brought pain. Moments when it was not returned.

But it never left her.

Instead, it revealed something deeper:

that kindness is not weakness.

It is a form of strength.

THE HOMELESS MAN

On the other side of her old house, there was a kindergarten.

She used to ride her brother’s bicycle, oversized for her – moving through a narrow alleyway that curved into a quiet circular path.

She remembers flame trees blooming each summer, cicadas filling the air, and fallen flowers collected into small childhood crafts.

Behind the school, there was a man.

A homeless man.

He had tattoos across his body, long hair falling across his face, and a bottle of rice wine often in his hand.

She did not know his full story.

Only that he had lost his parents.

But she remembers what her mother did.

Food. Clothing. A blanket in winter.

Not leftovers – always given with dignity.

He lived there through all four seasons.

Without walls. Without shelter.

She remembers seeing him curled on a narrow railing, sleeping against the cold.

She did not understand it then.

Not fully.

But something stayed with her.

Not what was said

but what was done.