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Twenty years ago, I wasn’t a hero. I wasn’t looking for trouble or trying to change the world; I was just trying to live my life. But on a night when the heavens themselves seemed to rage, battering my quiet street with an relentless torrent of rain and a furious symphony of thunder, everything changed. I was simply waiting for my tea to boil, a mundane ritual in an otherwise ordinary evening, when a tentative, almost imperceptible knock echoed through the storm. It was barely a whisper against the deafening roar outside, but it was there. And when I opened that door, the world as I knew it tilted on its axis. A figure, drenched and shivering, a man literally collapsing into my arms, stood before me. His clothes, heavy with water, clung to a frame that seemed on the verge of giving up. His eyes, though hollowed by something I couldn’t yet comprehend, locked onto mine with an intensity that burned through the chaos of the night. His voice, a mere rasp against the wind, uttered words that would forever etch themselves into my memory: ‘Please… I just need help.’ In that moment, all thought of hesitation, all self-preservation, vanished. What kind of person would I be to turn away such a desperate plea? I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, I had to bring him in, no matter the unknown consequences lurking in the storm.
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