The city bus groaned through traffic as I rested my hand on my belly, feeling the soft, steady kicks of the little life growing inside me. Seven months along, exhausted but glowing with quiet joy, I stood without hesitation when an elderly woman climbed aboard, clutching her handbag and searching for somewhere to sit. I offered her my seat — just a small gesture, nothing more. But the way she looked at me throughout the ride, with eyes full of something like memory or longing, made me feel as though I had stepped into a story I didn’t yet understand. When her stop arrived, she gathered herself slowly, then leaned close and slipped something into my coat pocket. “Take care of yourself, dear,” she whispered before stepping off the bus and disappearing into the afternoon.

When I reached into my pocket later, my fingers closed around a small locket, smooth from years of being held. I opened it gently. Inside was a faded photograph of a young woman holding a baby, and behind it, a tiny note that read: “Thank you. Years ago, someone gave up their seat for me when I carried my child.” My eyes blurred as I stared at that little treasure, feeling a connection that reached across generations. I realized then that kindness never dies — it travels, it returns, it grows. And as the bus rumbled on, I made a quiet vow to keep that light moving forward, one small act of compassion at a time.