It was 2 a.m., and I was walking home from my shift as a waitress. The streets were quiet, the alley I passed through even darker than usual. That’s when I noticed them—three boys following me. My heart pounded as I began to run, fear taking over.
Just then, I saw a man near a dumpster. I ran up to him, breathless, and pleaded, “Please… help me.” He looked shocked—like he hadn’t expected someone to turn to him for help. Without hesitation, he shattered a bottle against the wall and stood in front of me, shielding me. The sharp edge in his hand sent the boys running.
After that night, I saw him often. I would bring him food from the restaurant—just small gestures to thank him. He reminded me of a father figure, someone the world had forgotten, but whose heart was bigger than most.
Then one day, he was gone. I hadn’t seen him for two days, and I was worried. When I asked around, I found out he had been in an accident… and he died on the spot.
What he did for me—no one else would have. The world may have seen him as nothing, but to me, he was a protector, a hero.