At eight years old, I got lost in a blinding snowstorm—cold, alone, and terrified—until a stranger appeared and carried me to safety. He vanished afterward, never waiting for thanks. For thirty years, I never saw him again. Until one exhausted morning, after a long hospital shift, I spotted a homeless man in a subway station—familiar eyes,
a faded anchor tattoo. It was him. His name was Mark. I sat beside him, and when I reminded him who I was, he remembered. He’d saved me, and now he was the one who needed saving. I bought him a meal, clean clothes, and a room for the night. I promised to help him get back on his feet—but Mark revealed he was dying. His only wish: to see the ocean one last time. We planned to go the next day. But just as we were about to leave, I was called to perform emergency surgery. I told Mark I’d make it up to him. He smiled and said, “Go save that girl.” When I returned,
he was gone—peaceful, as if waiting for me one last time. I never took Mark to the ocean, but I had him buried by the shore. And in every life I save now, I carry his kindness with me. He saved me once. I hope I’ve honored that gift by saving others.
