Every year the child received an anonymous gift just when he needed it most, without knowing who sent it. He grew up accompanied by those mysterious boxes without ever knowing the person behind them. At the age of 18 he decided to seek the truth… and discovered something that transformed his entire childhood.

They were his size.

And not only that: they were the ones he had been seeing for weeks on the shelf of a store, the same ones he knew he couldn’t ask for because his aunt was already doing too much for him.

“This is no longer a coincidence,” Laura said quietly.

Daniel didn’t believe it either.

Someone knew.
Someone was watching.
But not in a scary way… but in a way that cared for it.

Over the years, the packages continued to arrive.

Always once a year.
Always on the same day.
Always unsigned.

At the age of eight he was an illustrated dictionary, just when he began to have trouble reading.

At nine, a thick coat that needed more than I wanted to admit.

At ten, a soccer ball when he had decided to join the school team, although he had not told anyone.

Each gift seemed to respond to something he didn’t even say out loud.

It was as if someone was listening to his thoughts.

“What if it’s an angel?” A colleague once told him.

Daniel laughed, but deep down he didn’t know what to think.

There was never a letter explaining anything.
There was never a call.
No one ever came to seek thanks.

Just the gifts.

Always opportune.
Always silent.

When he turned twelve, he began to ask more serious questions.

“Auntie… did my mother help people a lot?”

Laura looked at him through her glasses.

“Yes. A lot.

“Like this… How do you make someone do this for me?

Laura was slow to respond.

“Your mom was one of those people who didn’t ask if they could help. They just did it.

“And did he save anyone?”

The woman sighed.

“Daniel… Your mom never talked about it. He said that when you do something good, you don’t need to tell about it.

That answer, far from calming him down, awakened something inside him.

A sense of incomplete history.

At fifteen, the gift was different.

It wasn’t clothes.
Nor objects.

It was an envelope.

Inside there was enough money to pay for a school year that he wanted to take… but that I had never mentioned at home because I knew they couldn’t afford it.

That night he could not sleep.

It was no longer just about help.