One evening, he followed a coworker to a community shelter. The air smelled of soup and detergent, the hum of conversation low and tender. He wasn’t sure why he stayed—whether it was guilt or redemption, he couldn’t tell. But every thank-you he received felt like a confession.
He scrubbed dishes, folded blankets, and stacked crates of donations. The people there never asked questions. Some called him “sir,” some “friend.” Their kindness unsettled him. It was the simple, undeserved grace of being treated as if he still belonged to humanity.