Then my mother became ill and passed away. The following Christmas Eve, I nearly let the tradition fade. But I heard her voice reminding me that someone might still be waiting. I made a meal, wrapped it the way she always had, and went to the laundromat. Eli was there—but no longer sleeping on the floor. He stood in a neat suit, holding white lilies. He told me my mother had quietly connected him to support programs years earlier. He rebuilt his life and promised her he’d return one day to show he was okay.

Then he shared something I never knew. Years earlier, when I was briefly lost at a crowded fair, Eli had guided me to safety. My mother never forgot. It was what inspired her tradition. We later visited her grave together, where he placed the lilies gently beside her name. In that moment, I understood: kindness doesn’t end—it grows, connects, and carries forward, long after someone is gone.