My name is Daphne. I am 78 years old. I live in a small brick house in Leeds, England, with my husband Tom.
He has been ill for three years. Not in a way that is noticeable on the outside.
His mind is fading.
Sometimes he smiles at me as if he knows who I am.
Other days he asks me what I’m doing in his kitchen.
It’s hard.
Very hard.
In the mornings, I sometimes just sit at the kitchen table and cry into my cup of tea.
One Tuesday, I needed some air.
I went to the bus stop near the shops.
It’s just a metal bench under a faded blue canopy.
Old buses rumble past.
People wait, heads bowed, tired.
I saw a young woman there, about twenty years old.
She was looking at her phone, but her shoulders were tense.
As if the whole world was weighing on them.
She looked so lonely.
Just like I sometimes feel around Tom.
I went home.
I took a book from the shelf — The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.
I read it many years ago.
It once gave me hope.
I wrote a note on a piece of paper: “In case you get lost.
This book found me when I needed it.
Maybe it will help you too.
Pass it on when you’ve finished reading it.
— Daphne, 78.”
I put the note on the first page.
The next morning, I left the book on a bench at the bus stop.
My hands were shaking a little.
What if someone threw it away?
What if they thought I was crazy?
I didn’t go back there for two days.
I was afraid.
On the third day, the book was gone.
But in its place was another one — The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.
Inside was a note: “This book broke my heart, but it made me believe in goodness again.
I hope it helps you too.
— Aisha.”
My eyes welled up.
Someone noticed.
Someone cared.
So I left another book — Anna of the Green Mezzanine.
The note read: “For dreamers.
You are not stupid if you see magic where others do not.
— Daphne.”
Then — ‘A Man Called Ove.’
Note: “For gloomy hearts.
You mean more than you think.”
People also started leaving books.
Not just taking mine.
A man in a courier’s uniform left ‘The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse’ with a note: “My daughter drew a picture inside.
She said it was for someone who needs a hug.”
A teenager left a worn copy of ‘Harry Potter’: “This book helped me in hospital.
Pass on the magic.”
It wasn’t about the books.
It was about the notes.
“For those whose fathers forgot their names today.
I’m the same.”
(I carried this one in my pocket for a week).
“For single mums.
You are stronger than you think.”
“For the quiet ones.
Your voice matters.”
One frosty morning, I saw Mr Holden, the grumpy postman who never says hello.
He was sitting on a bench reading a book that had been left there — The Unbelievable Pilgrimage of Harold Fry.
He looked up, saw me and nodded.
A real nod.
Not his usual grumble.
Later, he left a book himself — The Little Prince.
His note read: “For Daphne.
My wife had Alzheimer’s.
I know what quiet days are like.
Thank you.”
Tom had had a difficult week.
He didn’t recognise me at all.
I felt empty.
I went to the bus stop.
I just sat there, cold and lost.
And then I saw it.
Under the leg of the bench, wrapped in plastic to keep it dry in the rain, lay a brand new copy of The Alchemist.
The very book I had left behind.
Inside was a note from a stranger: “Daphne, whoever you are, your books saved me this winter.
Please keep going.
The world needs your quiet light.
You are seen.”
I cried right there on the bench.
But they weren’t sad tears.
It was because I wasn’t alone.
Because Tom’s illness is still serious, but this little place… it has become warm.
People leave more than just books.
They write little notes to each other: ‘Hope the interview went well!’ (for the person who left the career guide), ‘You can do it, Mum!’ (on the book about raising children).
The bus stop is no longer just a place to wait.
It’s a place where strangers say, “I see you.
I know it’s hard.
You’re not alone.”
Just books and honesty left on a cold bench.
Tom still forgets my name sometimes.
But when I walk past the bus stop and see someone reading a book left by a stranger, I feel warm inside.
I feel a little less lost.
Maybe kindness doesn’t need grand gestures.
Maybe it just needs one person to leave a piece of their heart on Tuesday where another will find it.
Pass it on.
Please.
The world needs it. (And so do you).
