Dona Helena, from apartment 302, was 82 years old. She lived alone in a small apartment in downtown Curitiba. She never had visitors, and laughter was never heard coming from there; only the soft sound of shuffling steps and the discreet squeak of the door opening late in the afternoon.
Most neighbors barely noticed her presence. But I did.
One day, returning from the market, I saw Dona Helena struggling to climb the stairs with a heavy bag. I offered to help her and, without thinking much, I brought her a bowl of soup I had prepared at home. She held the bowl with her trembling hands and smiled:
— You are very kind, dear. It’s been a long time since anyone cooked for me.
From that day on, it became routine. Every afternoon, I would knock on her door with something — a freshly baked loaf of bread, some beans, or sometimes just a cup of tea. She always thanked me, always smiled… but she never let me in.
Two years passed like this. Until, one cold June morning, I saw an ambulance parked outside the building. The doorman looked at me sadly and whispered:
— Dona Helena is gone. She fell asleep and didn’t wake up.
I felt a knot in my chest. This woman whom I saw every day, who felt like part of my routine, was gone — and I didn’t even know her full name.
Days later, the building manager called me:
— You were the only one who visited her. Would you like to help sort out her things?
I entered her apartment for the first time. And I froze.
The place was dark, heavy… covered in dust. The curtains were closed, the wallpaper was peeling, and the furniture looked untouched for decades. But what impacted me the most was the bedroom.
On the bed lay an old quilt, and on top of it, a small stack of envelopes tied with a red ribbon. My name was written on the first one: “For my dear neighbor.”
I opened it with trembling hands. Inside was a letter written in shaky handwriting:
— Thank you for reminding me that I still existed. No meal you brought was just a bowl of soup — it was company, it was love, it was the reason I held on for one more day.
In the second envelope was something that changed my life forever: a small wooden box full of old photos of Dona Helena smiling, with friends, family, and even people I recognized as my own neighbors — people she had loved, but who had forgotten her. There was also a note:
— To save memories is to save love. Now that you know my story, do not let anyone grow old alone.
Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. The simple gesture of bringing her soup every day had meant more than I ever imagined. Dona Helena taught me that sometimes, the smallest act of kindness can save not only someone’s life, but also their soul.
From that day on, I began to see my neighbors differently. Every gesture of care, every shared smile, became invaluable. And every time I bring something to someone, I remember Dona Helena and how company can be much more important than any plate of food.