For nearly 15 years, I’ve worked nights at Ed’s Truck Stop, where the coffee’s strong and the customers are always interesting. One rainy evening, an old man came in quietly, ordering just apple pie and milk. He seemed worn by life but calm.
Then three rowdy bikers showed up, looking for trouble. They mocked the old man, ruined his pie, and knocked over his plate. He didn’t react—just paid, adjusted his hat, and left silently into the rain.
But outside, the bikers’ loud motorcycles suddenly lay crushed under a big rig’s wheels. The old man’s truck had appeared and was gone before they could react.
I felt a warm satisfaction—not from anger, but from how quietly he let karma do the talking. The bikers were left speechless, while the diner carried on, coffee brewing and stories unfolding.
Some nights, justice arrives perfectly.
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