It's been raining since noon. It's not the cozy kind of rain that makes you want to curl up with a book, but the kind that howls, floods, and makes you wonder if the roof will hold another night.

The house trembled a little when the thunder hit. And just when I thought I could finally breathe, the doorbell rang.

It was the delivery guy, drenched from head to toe, holding a soggy box of milk and diapers for my son. He apologized again and again for being late. He said the roads were flooded between Bekasi and Cibubur—two neighboring cities about 20 kilometers apart—that traffic was chaotic, that he almost turned back but didn't want to disappoint the customer.

I told him it was fine. Really, it was fine. And somehow, I meant it.

Before he left, I handed him a 20,000-rupiah tip—about one U.S. dollar. That's not much, I know. It's literally the smallest bill that could still feel like something. But it was all I had in cash—two twenties and a ten. I needed to save the rest to buy bread from the vendor who passes by my house every morning.

Still, I gave it. Because he looked cold, tired, and human. And because something in me—that same impulsive, intrusive little voice that always tells me to do things I can't explain—said, "Just give it."

He said thank you. Again and again. And I felt my chest warm up in a way that didn't make sense.

Because honestly, I've been running low, not just on money, but on hope. And somehow, tonight, giving away a single dollar felt like proof that I'm still here. Still capable of being kind, of feeling something other than fear.

People always say kindness comes back to you. I don't think that's true.

Sometimes kindness just stays quietly inside you, like a tiny fire you light for someone else, and somehow, it ends up keeping you warm too.

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