The airport never slept. Under bright lights and silent announcements, people rushed from gate to gate with rolling suitcases and sleepy children. The air smelled of coffee and metal, and the screens above flickered with the day’s endless flights.
He moved through it all, a man in a simple uniform, his broom tracing slow, careful arcs across the floor. The handle was worn smooth by years of work, and the rubber wheels of hurried travelers squeaked past him. He paused sometimes to look up, to watch the way the planes curved into the sky beyond the glass. He never tired of that slow lift into blue.
To most, he was invisible. Another quiet worker in the corner of their journeys. But he carried a softness in his eyes, a patient way of being present in the space around him.
Near a row of departure gates, he saw a young woman standing alone. Her phone was held tightly in her hand, but her eyes were distant. She looked like she had been crying, though she tried to hide it behind the glow of the departures board.
He moved closer, his broom pausing in its rhythm. “Are you alright?” he asked gently.
She blinked at him, startled. “I’m… I don’t know,” she said. “I think I missed my flight. Everything feels like it’s moving too fast.”
He nodded. “It does that sometimes.”
She sighed and looked around, as if the glass walls might offer some answer. “I don’t even know if I want to go,” she said. “I’m supposed to be starting something new, but… it’s hard to leave what you know, even if it doesn’t fit anymore.”
He leaned the broom against the wall and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small pack of tissues. He offered it to her with a quiet smile.
She took it with a small smile of her own, wiping her eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry, I know you’re just working…”
She took it with a small smile, wiping her eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry, I know you’re just working…”
He shook his head. “We are all working,” he said softly. “Some of us just sweep floors. Some of us are learning to sweep away old fears.”
She looked at him then, really looked. In the hush of the concourse, his quiet presence felt like a pause in the rush of announcements and rolling bags. She took a breath that went deeper than she expected.
He did not ask her where she was going. He did not need to know. Instead, he told her a story about a man who once missed his train and spent the night talking with a stranger who turned into a friend. He said that sometimes, the real journey was not about where the plane took you. It was about how you carried yourself there, and what you chose to hold on to.
A boarding call echoed overhead, and she checked her phone again. She would need to decide soon. But in that small moment, she felt lighter. She looked at the custodian, at his warm eyes and the calm way he leaned on his broom. And she felt that maybe it was alright not to have all the answers.
As she walked away, she turned back and smiled. He nodded and picked up his broom once more, moving back into the rhythm of sweeping. The floor shone a little brighter where he had passed.
And when the next traveler stumbled past with too many bags and too little patience, he was there again, ready to offer a word, a moment, a gentle reminder that even in places built for leaving, there could be small stays of grace.
Explore More from The Book of Gentle Miracles:
▶️ Next: The Barista in the Co-Working Café
🏠 Main Directory: The Book of Gentle Miracles
◀️ Previous: The Political Campaign Volunteer