It was supposed to be a routine pickup at the end of my night shift. I nearly drove off, but something about the quiet house made me stay. When I knocked, an elderly woman answered—frail, graceful, and alone. Inside, her home was nearly empty, a single suitcase by the door. “Would you carry my bag?” she asked softly.
At the cab, she paused. “Could we take the long way through downtown?” Though exhausted, I agreed. I turned off the meter. For two hours, she pointed out places that held her memories—her old office, the apartment she shared with her husband, the ballroom where she once danced. By sunrise, we arrived at her destination: a hospice. “How much do I owe you?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You gave an old woman one last moment of joy,” she said, hugging me gently.
Weeks later, I got a call. Harriet Thompson had passed. She left me a letter and a small gift: a silver locket with her husband’s photo.
“She wanted you to have it,” the lawyer said.
Before I could respond, her grandson burst in, furious. “Why is he here? He’s just a cab driver.” They accused me of manipulating her and contested the will.
In court, I simply told the truth about that quiet night drive. A hospice worker confirmed Harriet was of sound mind. The judge honored her wishes. The locket was mine.
Outside, I opened it—two young lovers, smiling forever. It wasn’t about value. It was about memory, love, and a simple act of kindness that meant the world.
