Someone once asked...
Someone answered with kindness...
A man who had lost almost everything once asked me what the point of continuing was, if nothing he did seemed to matter on any large scale. I asked him what he'd done that morning. He'd made tea for his elderly neighbor, like most mornings. He hadn't thought of it as meaningful. It was just Tuesday. Meaning rarely arrives as a single grand answer that settles the whole question forever. More often, it's built quietly from small, repeated acts that matter to someone, even if that someone is only one person, and even if you never think to count it.