I borrowed a library book on a whim.
A folded scrap of paper slipped out when I opened it — someone’s handwritten playlist, song titles in pencil, no name, no note explaining why it was there. I looked the songs up that night out of pure curiosity, half expecting it to mean nothing at all. They were soft, warm, a little wistful, the kind of songs you play when you’re trying to feel better without admitting you need to.
I don’t know who made it, or what they were going through when they did, or why a list like that ends up forgotten in a library book instead of a phone. I’ve listened to it on quiet mornings ever since, like borrowing a small piece of someone else’s comfort without ever meeting them.
I never tried to return it. I don’t think I could have.
Kindness doesn’t always know it’s being kind. Sometimes it’s just a stranger sharing what got them through, without ever meaning to.