The rain came suddenly, heavy and insistent, drumming on the pavement like a thousand small fists. Lina pulled her coat tighter and hurried toward the bus stop, the only shelter in sight. By the time she arrived, two others had already claimed the small patch of dry ground beneath its awning.

One was a man in a neatly pressed suit, clutching a briefcase, his polished shoes already spotted with water. The other was an elderly woman, wrapped in a patterned scarf that smelled faintly of earth after rain. She held a canvas tote stuffed with groceries, one of which—an orange—had rolled onto the wet ground.

The man noticed, looked down at the orange by his feet, and then looked away. His gaze stayed fixed on the timetable board, though the buses had stopped running on time long ago.

Lina hesitated. She was shy by nature, and she wasn’t sure how to speak to the older woman. The scarf marked her as someone from elsewhere—Middle East, perhaps, or Eastern Europe. Lina didn’t know. She didn’t want to embarrass herself. But the orange kept glowing at her feet, a small sun fallen into the rain.

She bent down, picked it up, and offered it to the woman with a smile.
The woman’s face lit up as if Lina had given her more than fruit. She pressed her hand to her chest.

“Shukran,” she said softly.

Lina didn’t understand the word, but the gratitude was clear. She nodded. “You’re welcome.”

The suited man shifted uncomfortably, as though caught between the world of numbers on his phone and the simple act unfolding beside him.

The rain thickened, dripping through cracks in the bus stop roof. The woman’s scarf grew damp at the edges, and she pulled it tighter. Without thinking too much, Lina opened her umbrella and tilted it so it covered the woman as well.

The woman gasped, her eyes crinkling into a smile. She reached into her tote and pulled out a small sprig of mint, still fresh and fragrant, perhaps grown in her own garden. She pressed it into Lina’s hand.

Lina brought it to her nose. The scent of green fields and warm kitchens filled her chest. She felt something loosen inside her, a sense that kindness could cross languages, borders, even rainstorms.

The man in the suit cleared his throat. His umbrella, black and wide, had been folded at his side the whole time. Slowly, awkwardly, he opened it and leaned it so that all three of them now stood beneath its arc.

They stood together in silence, strangers woven into a small shelter of shared dryness. The rain continued to fall, but something inside the bus stop had shifted—an invisible bridge built not from words but from gestures.

When the bus finally arrived, late and rattling, Lina stepped aboard with the taste of mint on her tongue and the warmth of shared humanity in her chest. She glanced back once and saw the suited man helping the woman with her groceries.

It was only a small thing, a passing moment in a storm. Yet Lina knew the memory would ripple through her—reminding her, in future rains, that bridges are built not of stone and steel, but of oranges, umbrellas, and the courage to extend a hand nearby.

✨ A hand in the dark, a smile across borders — nearby is closer than you think.

¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸

What is this?

Individual actions, no matter how small, ripple outwards to affect communities, ecosystems, and global wellbeing. These NanoNudgings often appears as a literal or metaphorical "Green Thread".

Found out more in the B:ginning of the free eBook 📗 the 1st Whir

~~~

NOt all in this Whir is generated by ChatGPT, but all Images are generated by Imagen⁴

... and everything is ∞ af bARdisT LennArrrt.se 2025 bARdisT@LennArrrt.xyz

Soli Deo Gloria

The rain came suddenly, heavy and insistent, drumming on the pavement like a thousand small fists. Lina pulled her coat tighter and hurried toward the bus stop, the only shelter in sight. By the time she arrived, two others had already claimed the small patch of dry ground beneath its awning.

One was a man in a neatly pressed suit, clutching a briefcase, his polished shoes already spotted with water. The other was an elderly woman, wrapped in a patterned scarf that smelled faintly of earth after rain. She held a canvas tote stuffed with groceries, one of which—an orange—had rolled onto the wet ground.

The man noticed, looked down at the orange by his feet, and then looked away. His gaze stayed fixed on the timetable board, though the buses had stopped running on time long ago.

Lina hesitated. She was shy by nature, and she wasn’t sure how to speak to the older woman. The scarf marked her as someone from elsewhere—Middle East, perhaps, or Eastern Europe. Lina didn’t know. She didn’t want to embarrass herself. But the orange kept glowing at her feet, a small sun fallen into the rain.

She bent down, picked it up, and offered it to the woman with a smile.
The woman’s face lit up as if Lina had given her more than fruit. She pressed her hand to her chest.

“Shukran,” she said softly.

Lina didn’t understand the word, but the gratitude was clear. She nodded. “You’re welcome.”

The suited man shifted uncomfortably, as though caught between the world of numbers on his phone and the simple act unfolding beside him.

The rain thickened, dripping through cracks in the bus stop roof. The woman’s scarf grew damp at the edges, and she pulled it tighter. Without thinking too much, Lina opened her umbrella and tilted it so it covered the woman as well.

The woman gasped, her eyes crinkling into a smile. She reached into her tote and pulled out a small sprig of mint, still fresh and fragrant, perhaps grown in her own garden. She pressed it into Lina’s hand.

Lina brought it to her nose. The scent of green fields and warm kitchens filled her chest. She felt something loosen inside her, a sense that kindness could cross languages, borders, even rainstorms.

The man in the suit cleared his throat. His umbrella, black and wide, had been folded at his side the whole time. Slowly, awkwardly, he opened it and leaned it so that all three of them now stood beneath its arc.

They stood together in silence, strangers woven into a small shelter of shared dryness. The rain continued to fall, but something inside the bus stop had shifted—an invisible bridge built not from words but from gestures.

When the bus finally arrived, late and rattling, Lina stepped aboard with the taste of mint on her tongue and the warmth of shared humanity in her chest. She glanced back once and saw the suited man helping the woman with her groceries.

It was only a small thing, a passing moment in a storm. Yet Lina knew the memory would ripple through her—reminding her, in future rains, that bridges are built not of stone and steel, but of oranges, umbrellas, and the courage to extend a hand nearby.

✨ A hand in the dark, a smile across borders — nearby is closer than you think.

¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸

What is this?

Individual actions, no matter how small, ripple outwards to affect communities, ecosystems, and global wellbeing. These NanoNudgings often appears as a literal or metaphorical "Green Thread".

Found out more in the B:ginning of the free eBook 📗 the 1st Whir

~~~

NOt all in this Whir is generated by ChatGPT, but all Images are generated by Imagen⁴

... and everything is ∞ af bARdisT LennArrrt.se 2025 bARdisT@LennArrrt.xyz

Soli Deo Gloria