Every Day I Fed a Homeless Man Near the Metro. He Disappeared a Year Ago, and Yesterday I Got a Call from the Notary Office: “Did You Know a Man Named Thomas?” Turns Out, That “Homeless” Man Was…

I met him a year ago at the metro exit. He was sitting on cardboard, covered with an old blanket, staring into space. He wasn’t begging, didn’t have his hand out. He just sat there. Hundreds of people hurried past, as if he didn’t exist.

That was the first time I bought him coffee and a sandwich. He looked up, surprised, and quietly said, “Thank you.” His voice was unexpectedly cultured, educated—not what you’d expect from someone living on the street.

From that day on, I stopped by every morning. I would buy breakfast, leave it beside him, and sometimes exchange a few words. He never spoke about himself. I didn’t ask. I felt everyone has the right to their secrets, even if you’re living on cardboard near a metro station.

Sometimes we just sat in silence. I would drink my coffee standing nearby, he drank his, sitting on the ground. Those five minutes of silence amidst the morning rush became something important for me. A reminder that there’s room for simple humanity in the world.

Months passed. He seemed a bit more cheerful and started smiling more often. One day he said, “You’re the only one who sees me as a person. Everyone else looks right through me.” His words hurt, but I simply nodded and went to work.

And then he vanished. Just one day, he was no longer at his usual spot. I asked other homeless people nearby—none of them knew anything. I wondered if he’d found shelter or left. Maybe something bad had happened. I worried for a few days, but then life swept me away, and I gradually stopped thinking about it.

Yesterday, I got a call from the notary office. A polite female voice asked, “Did you know a man named Thomas?” I was confused. There were no Thomases in my life. Or perhaps there were, but I didn’t remember them.

Then she mentioned an address—the very exit of the metro station. And I understood. The homeless man. His name was Thomas.

The notary asked me to come in to handle some paperwork. I arrived, utterly bewildered. What could a homeless man have that would require a notary?

Turns out, quite a lot.

Thomas was the owner of a small but successful restaurant chain. Three establishments in the city, all thriving. Five years ago, he was diagnosed with severe depression after his wife passed away. He couldn’t cope, sold two out of the five restaurants, and neglected the rest. The business collapsed, debts accumulated, and he lost his apartment.

And he ended up on the street. He simply gave up. Decided it would be easier—not to fight, not to try, just to exist.

But six months after we met, something changed. He started getting treatment, found the strength to seek help from a psychiatrist. Gradually, he got back on his feet. He reached out to old partners, rebuilt connections, reclaimed one of the restaurants. Then a second one. He was back on his feet again.

The notary handed me some documents. Thomas had died two weeks ago—heart attack, sudden and quick. Before his death, he made a will. One of his restaurants—the very first one, where it all began—he left to me.

I sat in the chair, speechless. The notary took out an envelope: “He asked me to give this to you.”

Inside was a letter. The handwriting was unsteady, a few lines: “You fed me for a year when I was a nobody. You didn’t ask who I was or why I was there. You just brought me breakfast and saw me as a person. It saved me. I realized that if even one person believes I’m worth something, then it’s worth trying again. This restaurant—not just a business. It’s my gratitude. And a reminder: kindness is always worth more than money. Thank you for not walking past.”

I cried there in that cold office. Cried because I’d never thought that morning coffee could change someone’s life so much. That five minutes of attention could restore someone’s faith in themselves.

Now I run that restaurant. Every morning, I go there and think of Thomas. There’s a photograph of him on the wall—from before everything fell apart. Smiling, happy, full of plans.

And I think: how many people around us silently go through hell, waiting for just one glance, one gesture? How many could rise if someone just paused? And how little it takes—a coffee, a sandwich, five minutes of time. Just to see the person. Are you ready to stop?

*****

Every morning I fed a homeless man near the метро. He never asked for anything, just sat quietly on a piece of cardboard — clean, calm, as if trying to stay invisible to everyone. We never spoke: I left him coffee and a sandwich and went to work.
Then he disappeared, and I thought I would never see him again.
Yesterday, I received a call from a notary’s office asking: “Did you know a man named Thomas?” What they said next left me completely stunned…
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