He didn’t say much when we first crossed paths.
Just gave me a gentle nod and extended his hand, offering a small wooden heart—smoothed by time and touch, still warm from being held.
“Take it,” he said softly. “They belong in pockets, not on display.”
It was the kind of gesture you could easily brush past. Quiet. Modest. But something about it made me pause.
“What’s the story behind these?” I asked.
His eyes, kind and slightly tired behind his glasses, crinkled with a smile.
“I started carving after Ruth died. We were married forty-eight years. I needed something for my hands to do… and something to help my heart.”
He didn’t elaborate. Just let the silence carry the weight of his words.
I looked down at the heart he’d given me—its shape not quite perfect, but lovingly made. The kind of imperfection that felt honest. Human.
I’d met Harold by chance. He was sitting outside a quiet little café in the corner of a sleepy town square, whittling a block of wood with a pocketknife. I nearly walked past him—until he looked up, met my eyes, and handed me one of his hearts. Curiosity drew me in, and before long, I was sitting beside him, wrapped in easy conversation that seemed to stretch for hours.
As the light faded and the square settled into evening hush, Harold shared more about his craft—and Ruth. She’d been the love of his life. Her passing had left a silence he didn’t know how to live with. So, he began carving. Not for art, not for money—but to give.
“One for every person who might need one,” he said. “I’ve handed out hundreds… maybe thousands. But I always keep one for myself.”
He tapped his shirt pocket, where I imagined that heart sat close.
“Why keep only one?” I asked him.
His smile turned wistful, his gaze drifting somewhere far off.
“Because even in giving, you have to leave something for yourself. That heart in my pocket? It’s a reminder. That I’m still here. That I’m still capable of love—even if the person I loved most isn’t.”
I sat with that for a moment, letting it settle. There was something deeply grounding in the way he spoke, in the quiet truth of it all. He hadn’t just found a way to survive his grief—he had transformed it into something that connected him to the world.
His hearts weren’t souvenirs. They were stories. Reminders.
A tiny offering from a man who’d lost everything… and still found a way to give.