For two summers, someone had been growing vegetables on the roof of our apartment building, though nobody seemed to know exactly who. Tomatoes climbed makeshift wooden frames between the water tanks, herbs filled old paint buckets along the ledge, and every few days, a basket of whatever was ripe appeared near the mailboxes downstairs with a small handwritten note: "Take what you need."
I had all but given up trying to find out who was responsible, assuming it was probably the building manager, or maybe a group of tenants working together. Nobody I asked seemed to know for certain, and the baskets kept appearing regardless, rain or shine, disappearing again within hours.
I finally found out by accident, climbing the roof stairs one early morning to watch the sunrise, something I rarely did. Mrs. Okafor from the fourth floor was already up there, kneeling beside a row of pepper plants, filling a basket so much so that tomatoes kept rolling out the sides.
She seemed almost embarrassed to be discovered, waving off my questions at first. Eventually, though, she told me she had grown up without always having enough to eat, and gardening now was, for the sake of remembering that feeling, her quiet way of making sure nobody nearby ever had to feel it the same way. Under no circumstances did she want her name attached to the baskets, worried it would turn a simple gift into something people felt they had to thank her for, or worse, feel embarrassed accepting.
I never told anyone what I saw that morning, though I did start leaving a small bag of coffee near her door occasionally, unsigned, the same way she left her baskets. Neither of us has ever mentioned it directly. Some mornings, walking past the mailboxes, I still see a fresh basket sitting there, and I think about how much quiet care can hide behind four simple words: take what you need.