I found the list taped to a bus stop, of all places. It stopped me dead in my tracks.
Most people walked right past it. But I saw it. A simple piece of notebook paper, with a heading that read: “Before I Go.”
My first thought was something dark. But the three items on the list weren’t about skydiving or world travel. They were quiet. Profound.
Hear the ocean.
See a real galaxy.
Know I mattered.
My heart cracked open. I stood there for a full five minutes, people bumping past me. This wasn’t a bucket list. It was a soul’s list. And I couldn’t just walk away.
I’m a sound engineer. Item #1 was easy. That night, I went to my studio. I didn’t just grab a generic ocean sound. I found a recording I’d made on a still morning in Maine—gentle waves, a few distant gulls, the soft hiss of foam on sand. I cleaned it up until it was perfect and put it on a simple, cheap MP3 player I had lying around.
The next day, I went back to the bus stop. The list was still there. I taped the MP3 player right beneath it, with a note: “For #1. Press play.”
I felt a little silly, but also electric. I started checking the bus stop every day.
A week later, the MP3 player was gone. And next to the list, a new note had appeared. It was written on the back of a receipt in a shaky hand:
“I listened. I was there. Thank you. – Henry”
His name was Henry.
Now I was invested. Item #2: See a real galaxy. I’m no astronomer. But I remembered a VR headset my nephew got for his birthday. It was just collecting dust.
It took me a weekend to figure it out. I downloaded a powerful astronomy app, programmed it to give a perfect, guided tour of the Andromeda Galaxy, and left the headset in a bag at the bus stop with a new note: “For Henry. For #2.”
Two days later, the headset was gone. Another note was there.
“I never knew there were so many stars. It was… enough. – Henry”
The word “enough” killed me. But it was the third item that haunted me. Know I mattered. How do you give someone that? You can’t tape it to a bus stop.
I didn’t know what to do. So I did nothing. And I hated myself for it.
A month passed. The list was gone. The bus stop was just a bus stop again. I felt like I’d failed.
Then, yesterday, I saw an old man sitting on the bench. He was frail, holding a cane. But he looked… peaceful. He caught me staring and smiled.
“Looking for something?” he asked. His voice was the one from the notes.
“You’re Henry,” I said, my own voice a whisper.
He nodded. “And you’re the one who left the stars.”
We talked. He was sick, he said. The kind of sick you don’t get better from. He’d made the list as a last, desperate prayer to a world he felt was forgetting him.
“I got my answers,” he said. “The ocean was a memory. The galaxy was a hope. But the third thing… I didn’t find that where I expected.”
He pointed a trembling finger at the bulletin board behind me. I hadn’t even noticed.
Taped all around the space where his list had been were dozens of notes. Handwritten on napkins, sticky notes, torn paper.
“Henry, you matter to me. I think about the ocean every day now.”
“Thank you for reminding me what’s important. You mattered to a stranger.”
“Because of you, I called my dad. You matter.”
“I started my own list. You changed my life.”
I started crying, right there on the sidewalk. He hadn’t needed to hear it from one person. He needed to see the ripple.
Henry placed his hand on mine. “You thought you were helping me with my list,” he said, his eyes bright. “But you were the one who showed me the answer to the last item. You turned my whisper into a chorus.”
He stood up to leave, leaning on his cane. “Don’t stop,” he said. “The world is full of people with quiet lists. They’re just waiting for someone to help them press play.”
I’m sharing this because Henry passed away last week. His niece found me to tell me. And she gave me his final note, which he’d asked her to deliver.
It’s just two words.
“You mattered.”
His list is complete. Now it’s our turn. Look for the lists. Be the ripple.