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That night, the rain fell harder than I had seen in years. Inside our old wooden house on Maple Lane, I sat mending my son’s uniform while my four children did their homework by candlelight.
Two years earlier, my husband Matthew had died in a construction accident. The house was all we had left.
Then came the knock.
An elderly man stood outside, soaked and shivering.
I let him in.
Before sleeping, he said quietly,
“You are a kind woman, Hannah. That kindness will save your family one day.”
The next morning he placed a document on the table.
“Sell me this house for one dollar.”
He warned me it was not safe, that something beneath the neighborhood threatened us.
I refused — at first.
That night, part of the roof collapsed.
By morning, I packed our bags and sold the house for one dollar.
Two days later the news announced:
“A gas explosion destroyed a home on Maple Lane. No one was inside.”
It was our house.
The leak had been building for months.
Whoever had lived there was, as the firefighter said, “very lucky.”
Now I know:
Sometimes when you open your door to help a stranger, you end up saving your own life.
