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: