Adam had been living on the streets for 13 years.
At 43 years old, he owned almost nothing. No car. No apartment. No steady job. Everything he possessed fit inside a weathered backpack with a broken zipper that he secured with a safety pin. But there was one thing he still carried with him that no one could see.
His pride.
He had one rule — he never begged.
People in town knew him. Not well enough to invite him into their homes, but well enough to recognize him.
Adam was the man who would offer to carry groceries to the car for five dollars. The one who shoveled snow from driveways in the winter and raked leaves in the fall.
He cleaned gutters, hauled trash, painted fences, and stacked firewood. If someone needed help moving a couch up three flights of stairs, Adam was the first to raise his hand.
“I don’t want charity,” he would say when someone tried to slip him money out of pity. “Give me something to do.”
Most people respected that.
Some didn’t.
“You’re too proud for your own good,” one shop owner had told him once.
Adam had simply smiled. “Pride’s the only thing I’ve got left.”
He survived with dignity.
That evening had turned colder than he expected. The wind cut through his thin jacket as he walked the quiet streets. The sky was a dull gray, threatening rain. He had earned just enough that day to buy a sandwich and a bottle of water. His stomach was full, but his bones ached.
He needed shelter.
The abandoned house on Willow Street had become his occasional refuge. It was a crumbling two-story place with boarded windows and peeling paint. The front door hung crooked on its hinges, but it still closed well enough to block the worst of the wind. No one had lived there for years.
Adam stepped inside and exhaled slowly.
“Home sweet home,” he muttered to himself, brushing dust from a corner of the living room.
He laid his backpack down and lowered himself onto the dusty wooden floor. The house smelled of mildew and old wood, but it was dry. That was enough.
As he stretched out, something caught his attention.
A faint unevenness beneath his shoulder. He shifted and ran his hand across the floorboards.
One felt loose.
Adam frowned.
He pushed himself up and examined it more closely. The board lifted slightly at one end. Curiosity tugged at him. He had spent enough nights in abandoned places to know that sometimes people hid things.
He hesitated.
“This isn’t your business,” he murmured.
But he was already sliding his fingers beneath the edge.
With a firm pull, he lifted the loose floorboard.
Underneath was a small jewelry box.
Adam froze.
It was wooden, dark, and polished, surprisingly untouched by dust. He stared at it for several seconds, his pulse quickening. Slowly, almost afraid it might vanish, he lifted it out.
The latch clicked softly when he opened it.
Inside was a collection of valuables — rings, necklaces, gold pieces that could change his life overnight.
The metal glinted faintly in the dim light filtering through the cracked window. A heavy gold chain. A diamond ring. Several delicate bracelets.
Adam swallowed hard.
He did not need to be an expert to know this was worth a lot. More money than he had seen in over a decade. Enough for rent. Enough for new clothes. Enough for a fresh start.
His hands trembled.
For a moment, an image flashed in his mind: a small apartment with clean sheets, a hot shower, a steady job. No more sleeping on floors. No more pretending not to hear insults.
“This is it,” he whispered.
But then he noticed something else inside the box.
A folded note.
Adam’s chest tightened as he unfolded it carefully.
The handwriting was rushed, slightly shaky.
“Give this to Kylie if anything happens to me. This will save her life. She doesn’t have much time.”
There was an address written below.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
He read the note again. And again.
Kylie.
He stared at the gold pieces.
The weight of temptation pressed heavily on him. No one knew he was here. No one knew about the box. He could close it, slip it into his backpack, and walk away.
Thirteen years on the streets.
Thirteen winters.
Thirteen summers of blistering heat.
He imagined handing the jewelry to a pawnshop owner. Imagined cash in his hands. A motel room. A bed.
But the words echoed louder.
“This will save her life. She doesn’t have much time.”
About the Author
