I was alone in a taxi around 3 a.m. The driver kept glancing at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes meeting mine in silence. As soon as we pulled up to my building, I paid quickly and darted out, hurrying inside and climbing the stairs up to my eighth-floor apartment. But just as I reached the top, I heard footsteps echoing behind me—it was the same taxi driver. My heart raced. Terrified, I started running, but he was gaining on me. I turned around, and he suddenly grabbed my wrist.
“Wait,” he said, breathless. “You left this.”
In his hand was my wallet.
I stood there, stunned and humiliated, my pulse thudding in my ears. I had pepper spray ready in my pocket, finger on the trigger, prepared to scream—but instead, I just felt foolish. He held out my wallet like a peace offering.
“Sorry if I frightened you,” he said, stepping back to give me space. His accent was thick—Middle Eastern, maybe—and his eyes, though tired, were gentle. “It was on the seat. I didn’t want someone else to find it.”
I muttered a quiet thank you, my face burning with embarrassment.
He nodded and turned away, jogging back down the stairs two at a time.
I didn’t sleep much that night.
It wasn’t just the scare that stayed with me, but something in the expression he wore when I finally relaxed. Like he’d seen fear like that before. Like he expected it.
The next morning, I opened my wallet—everything was intact. But tucked inside was a sticky note that read:
“Be safe. The world is full of both kinds.”
I read it again and again. What did he mean—both kinds?
That one simple note stirred something in me.
At the time, I was new to London, working at a community art center in Hackney teaching creative writing. I hadn’t built many connections yet, apart from my housemate Anouk, who worked night shifts at the hospital, and a few colleagues.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about that driver. He didn’t owe me anything. I had feared him. Misjudged him. And yet, he went out of his way to return something I didn’t even know I had lost.
A few days later, I did something unexpected.
I called the taxi company and asked if they could help me identify the driver. The dispatcher hesitated, citing privacy rules. But when I explained that I simply wanted to thank him—and maybe buy him a coffee—her tone softened.
“I think you’re talking about Idris,” she said. “He’s the only one who works that late shift on that route.”
She gave me his number.
I stared at it for hours before sending a message:
“Hi, this is the woman from the other night—the wallet. I’d love to buy you a coffee sometime.”
His response came quickly.
“I was just doing the right thing. But yes, I’d like that. Tomorrow?”
We met at a cozy Algerian café near Finsbury Park. I expected awkwardness, but the conversation flowed.
Idris was soft-spoken, thoughtful. Every word seemed considered, as if it held weight. He told me he’d moved to the UK five years ago. Back home in Algeria, he had been a philosophy teacher.
“Why not teach here?” I asked, sipping mint tea.
He let out a bitter laugh. “You think they’d let me? No local qualifications. No official recognition.”
He worked nights to send money back to his younger sister, who wanted to become a doctor. “She has a sharp mind,” he said. “She can do it.”
Something in me shifted again. I couldn’t explain it, but I didn’t want to walk away.
We kept meeting—at the café, in parks, just walking and talking. I found myself wanting to know him better.
One evening, I asked if he missed teaching.
“Every day,” he said.
Half-joking, I offered him a chance to teach a guest session at our center. We had a module on worldview and storytelling—perfect for someone like him.
He looked surprised. “Me? No one would care what I have to say.”
“I do,” I told him.
Eventually, he agreed. I talked to my supervisor and got approval.
The session was a hit. Idris opened with a quote from Rumi and guided the students through a powerful discussion on misjudgment and identity. He asked them to write stories about times they’d been misunderstood—or misunderstood someone else.
They were captivated.
Afterward, one tough student, Tariq, came up to him. “You talk like my uncle. He’s smart. He’s in prison now. But he was like you.”
Idris just nodded and said, “Then he’s still smart.”
Something shifted again—for him and for me.
We began seeing each other outside the classroom, not because of obligation or gratitude. We were just drawn to each other. Sure, our lives didn’t sync perfectly—he worked nights, I worked days. He didn’t drink; I did occasionally. He carried a weight, a quiet sadness. But there was a calm to him, a gentleness I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.
Then came another twist—my wallet got stolen again. This time on the Tube. And this time, it was emptied.
I came home furious and ranting. The irony stung—I’d once feared the man who returned it, only to have it truly stolen by a stranger.
Idris listened silently, then said something I’ll never forget:
“Some people take. Some people return. Your job isn’t to guess which—just be the kind that returns.”
That line cracked something in me. I cried.
From there, our connection only grew stronger. He started dropping into my writing classes when he could. The students adored him. He mentored one of our scholarship kids. He was becoming part of the community.
Then, everything shifted again.
One evening, Idris didn’t show up to our café meeting. No message. No call.
I grew concerned and phoned the taxi company. The dispatcher hesitated, then said quietly:
“Idris isn’t working tonight. He might be… dealing with something. It’s not my place.”
I barely slept.
The next day, I received a text from an unknown number.
“This is Lamis, Idris’s sister. He asked me to message you. He’s okay, just… in a holding center. Immigration.”
My stomach dropped.
His work visa had expired a month ago. He’d been trying to sort it quietly. He didn’t want me to worry.
A routine stop near Paddington led to him being detained.
I went into action.
I contacted every legal aid resource I could find. Spoke to my boss. Collected letters from colleagues and students, explaining how much Idris meant to our community.
We assembled a case—testimonials, stories, documentation of his contributions.
Two weeks passed. Nothing.
Then came a text from Lamis:
“They released him. On probation. But he can’t work right now.”
I rushed to his flat.
He looked exhausted and thinner. But when he saw me, he smiled faintly.
“I told them about you,” he said. “The students. The center. I think it helped.”
It had.
Soon after, the center brought him on as an official volunteer. Not paid, but recognized.
Eventually, he got a new visa—one tied to educational service. It wasn’t permanent, but it was renewable.
And then came the biggest change—he was offered a paid teaching assistant position at another center. They’d seen him at one of our workshops.
He hesitated.
“You helped me build this,” he said. “I don’t want to leave it behind.”
“You’re not,” I told him. “You’re building something new.”
We kept seeing each other. No big declarations. No social media posts. Just shared coffee, quiet mornings, park strolls, and deep conversations.
I used to think the most terrifying moment of that story was the stairwell.
But now I realize the scariest part was how close I came to never knowing him at all.
If I hadn’t sent that text. If he hadn’t returned the wallet. If we’d both surrendered to fear instead of trust.
Fate doesn’t always roar in. Sometimes, it’s just a note tucked in a wallet:
“Be safe. The world is full of both kinds.”
And he was right.
But what matters is choosing what kind you’ll be.
Now, whenever I find something someone’s lost—a phone, scarf, or scribbled note—I return it. Every time.
Because you never know who you’re returning it to… or what they might return to you.