Emily had been a gentle, caring child. Her mother often reminded her,
Your father, George, was a man who helped everyone, though his life was short. You inherit his kindness, dear, and even as a child you saved every little creature you could find.
Emily grew up, finished school, found work, and moved into her grandfathers flat in Manchester. She remained generous and fair, always ready to lend a hand to people and animals alike, even when some thought she was a bit odd.
Does she really need all this attention? Shes not of this world, they whispered.
One rainy autumn afternoon, Emily was returning from the market when she noticed an elderly lady struggling with two halffilled shopping bags.
My goodness, look at those trembling hands, the way her back bends, Emily thought with sympathy, She must have a lifetime of stories behind her.
She caught up to the woman and recognized her as Mrs. Margaret Blythe, who lived on the same floor.
Good afternoon, let me help you with those, Emily offered, taking the bags from her.
At first Mrs. Blythe startled, then managed a shy smile.
Thank you, dear, but I need to get to the fourth floor.
I know, I live on the second, Emily replied cheerfully.
When Emily carried the bags up to Mrs. Blythes flat, she saw the place was in disarray.
Mrs. Blythe, may I tidy up for you? It looks a bit hard to manage, Emily suggested. I can come back later after I unload my own groceries.
Oh, sweetie, you dont have to waste your time on me, the old lady protested.
Its no trouble. I live alone and today is my day off, Emily replied.
From then on Emily visited Mrs. Blythe regularly, often sharing tea in the evenings. She loved listening to the soft music the elderly woman played on an old pianoone her late husband had bought when their son was born. Emily herself had learned piano at a music school, though she never pursued it professionally, simply because her mother had encouraged her.
One morning, as Emily passed the buildings lobby, she spotted Mrs. Tamara Sinclair, a neighbour from the fifth floor, seated on a bench.
Emily, I see youve taken Mrs. Blythe under your wing. Good work. Its a shame about her son and daughterinlawthey live in Germany, welloff, while their grandchildren stay here in London. They only visit rarely, whispering about her inheritance as if theyre waiting for her to pass, Tamara said, shaking her head.
Emily nodded and entered the lift.
Good heavens, what riches could Mrs. Blythe possibly have? Just a piano and some sturdy furniture, Emily thought, smiling at the gossip.
That evening Emily brought a freshly baked cake to Mrs. Blythe.
Lets have a cup of tea. Ill get the kettle, she said brightly, heading to the kitchen.
Oh, youre too kind, dear, Mrs. Blythe replied, eyes glittering.
Just wanted to brighten your day, Emily smiled.
Over tea, Mrs. Blythe spoke of her childhood during the war, of a husband long gone, and of a son who had settled in Germany years ago. She lamented how seldom he visited, as if he had forgotten his own mother.
But you still have grandchildren, Emily prompted.
The grandchildren think Im a feeble old thing, Mrs. Blythes voice shook. Last year my grandson Gary came, loud and brash, though he did bring some fruit. As he left he said, Oh, old mum, youre a bother now, go on your way. Thats the sort of grandson I havemy granddaughter never shows up either, they just wait for my death.
Winter arrived, and Mrs. Blythe fell ill. Emily began stopping by each evening after work, bringing meals, medicines, and groceries. One night she asked,
Would you like me to play the piano? I know you love the music.
Emilys fingers caressed the keys, and a gentle melody filled the room. Mrs. Blythe closed her eyes, soaking in the sound and perhaps recalling distant memories.
Playing the piano became their nightly ritual. Mrs. Blythe would tell simple stories, and Emily would accompany them with soft tunes.
Time went on, and Mrs. Blythe grew weaker, relying on the local doctors prescriptions. One afternoon, after Emily had polished the floor and dusted the shelves, Mrs. Blythe whispered,
My dear, Ive written a will. The flat will go to my grandchildrenthough theyll likely argue over itbut I want the piano to be yours.
Emily was stunned.
Im just a helper, I dont need anything, and Im not family, she protested.
Dont worry, love. Ive arranged everything properly.
Spring came, and Mrs. Blythe could no longer rise from bed. Emily tended to her, ensuring the medicine arrived on time. One night, alone in the quiet flat, Mrs. Blythe slipped away. Just before she passed, she murmured,
Remember the piano, dear. Its yours now. I want you to keep it.
The next morning Emily rushed to the flat, only to find the old woman gone. She called Gary on the phone shed found among Mrs. Blythes papers.
At the funeral Emily wept as though she had lost her own grandmother. Later, the Blythe family arrived to sort out the estate and summoned Emily. Inside the oncelivedin flat, the only thing left standing in the centre of the room was the piano; everything else was empty.
While the movers are here, well bring the piano to your flat, said Gary, a tall, selfassured man, looking down at Emily with a faint smile. Your dear motherinlaw wanted you to have it though Im not sure why she chose you over her own children.
He fell silent, perhaps aware that his sister and he often joked about Emilys eccentric kindness.
Emily took the piano home, dusted it gently, and whispered, Thank you, Margaret. You were a truly kind soul.
For a few days she could not bring herself to sit at the instrument. One evening, after dinner, she lifted the lid, ran her fingers over the keys, and discovered a small parcel wrapped in silk hidden among the strings. Inside was a petite jewellery box, its lid opening to reveal sparkling gems and a handwritten note:
Emily, dear, this is for you. Thank you for the last year of my lifeyou made it happy, and I was never alone. Keep one ring as a memory of me. If you wish to sell the rest, you may, but keep at least that one piece.
Tears streamed down Emilys face as she examined the rings, earrings, bracelets, two necklaces, and a photograph of a young Margaret. She chose a single modest ring, slipped it onto her finger, and pressed a key. A tender melody floated through the room.
She placed the open jewellery box on the table, pondering what to do with the riches. The next Saturday she packed the box, took it to a pawnshop, and handed it over.
These are family heirlooms, the appraiser said, surprised.
Yes, theyre quite valuable, Emily answered.
When the money landed in her hands, she bought a modest sum and set off for the outskirts of the city. There stood an abandoned twostorey house with a large garden, its plaster flaking away to reveal solid brickwork. The structure was still sound.
Emily imagined a new purpose for the place. She soon approached a realtor, announcing her intention to purchase the dilapidated property.
You really want to buy that? It needs extensive renovation, the agent warned.
Exactly that house, Emily affirmed.
Eight months later, after the building had been restored, Emily opened a small residential home for lonely seniors. The spacious sitting room featured the piano, surrounded by comfortable sofas and armchairs. The first residents were Mr. Ivan Sampson, a retired teacher, and two widows, Anne and Gloria, who had lost their homes in a fire. More and more seniors soon called it their new haven.
Often, they would ask, Emily, could you play something for us?
She obliged, letting the pianos notes fill the air. In those quiet moments she felt Margarets presence, as if the old lady whispered between the chords, Well done, dear.
Emily became the beloved owner of the cozy house, affectionately called Our Home. Journalists visited, writing stories about the haven shed created.
People say you sold the jewellery and turned it into a home for the elderly. Would you regret that? a reporter asked.
Not one bit, Emily smiled. Seeing these seniors happy, watching Gloria knit socks, hearing Mr. Sampson chess with his friend, brings me more joy than any treasure could. I know Margaret is pleased with how I used her gifts. I gained something far richerlove and kindness.
Two years later Emily married Stephen, a warmhearted man who gladly helped run the home. Together they cared for their residents, living proof that a single act of compassion can blossom into a legacy that warms many hearts.
Kindness, when nurtured, returns not as wealth but as lasting joy and community.
