A Heart of Gold

By Peter Bowden

She was the kind of girl who noticed things—like the bent wing of a butterfly, or when the old man at the grocery store dropped his change and tried to pretend it didn’t matter. Her world was small, just the town square and the worn sidewalks around her house, but her kindness stretched beyond fences and seasons. People said she had a heart of gold, though she never thought of herself that way. She just did what needed doing.

She sat with the lonely, fetched warm bread for the sick, and fed the stray dog that growled at everyone else. When the river spilled over its banks one spring, she was there barefoot in the mud, lifting sandbags twice her size with a smile like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Her goodness was quiet, never announced. It grew like wildflowers—without permission, without applause.

And in time, her kindness became part of the place itself. Children told stories about her under blankets, and the mayor named a bench for her that she never sat on because she was always moving. She grew older, but the shine of her spirit never dulled. Long after she was gone, people still remembered the girl who lived simply, loved deeply, and proved every day that a heart doesn’t glitter—it gives.


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