Mr Commonsense 

Not much. Just a smear. He wiped it off with his sleeve. Thought, Must’ve bitten my tongue again.

But the next morning, more. Then a bruise on his gum. Then his front tooth wobbled.

He didn’t call the doctor.

He couldn’t afford it. And honestly? He didn’t care anymore.

So he kept brushing. With the same toothbrush he’d had. The bristles were splayed, the handle cracked. He taped it together with duct tape.

One afternoon, while walking to the corner store (his only outing), he dropped his wallet. A young woman picked it up, maybe 20, wearing a hospital scrubs jacket.

“You okay?” she asked.

He nodded.

She looked at his face. Really looked.

Then she reached into her bag. Pulled out a small plastic box.

“Here,” she said. “New toothbrush. Fluoride. Soft bristles. I get them free at work.”

He stared at it. Like it was made of glass.

“I don’t need”

“Take it,” she said. “I’ll be back next week. Check your door.”

And then she walked away.

He didn’t use it for three days.

On the fourth day, he sat at his kitchen table. Held the new brush. Looked at the old one, taped, broken, faithful.

He threw the old one away.

Used the new one.

That night, he cried. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent tears, falling into the sink as he rinsed his mouth.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe because no one had touched him gently in ten years.

Maybe because someone saw his pain and didn’t ask for anything in return.

The next morning, there was another box on his door.

A tube of toothpaste.

Then a jar of honey. (“For your throat,” the note read.)

Then socks.

Then a handwritten letter,

My name’s Lila. I work nights at the ER. I see people come in broken. Some are alone. Some are scared. I want to be the one who says, “Hey... you matter.” Even if it’s just with a toothbrush.

P.S. If you ever want to talk, I’m here. No pressure. Just leave a note under my door if you’re brave enough.

Franklin didn’t write back.

But the next week, he left something on her doorstep.

A single, perfect apple.

And a folded piece of paper,

I used to fix clocks. Made them tick again. Now I think.... maybe I can learn to make myself tick too.

Lila started leaving things every Monday, a blanket, a book, a jar of pickles, a drawing her niece made of a man holding a toothbrush like a sword.

He never thanked her.

But he started opening his door a crack when he heard footsteps.

He started saying “hello” to the mail carrier.

He called his daughter.

She cried on the phone.

He didn’t say sorry.

He just said, “I’m still here.”

Last month, Franklin turned 80.

He didn’t throw a party.

But when he opened his door this morning, there were seven toothbrushes on the step.

All different colors.

All new.

With notes tucked under each,

For you.

For your neighbor.

For the man who needs it most.

From your building.

He stood there. Holding them all.

And for the first time in years, he smiled.

Not because he was fixed.

But because someone else believed he could be.

And sometimes.....

That’s enough to bring you back to life."

Let this story reach more hearts....

By Grace Jenkins