Tom Stratton sat looking at the home on the hillside. In the dimming evening light, he could just perceive the details of its structure, giving subtle and warm life to its outline. As the sun dipped below the tree line, the home began to vanish into the warm night air. It was a special place, indeed.
Tom was an ordinary man, who did extraordinary things. For fifteen years he had been a United Nations Relief Worker in some of the most besieged and strife-ridden parts of the globe. From the middle east to Central America, he had spent nearly half his life helping those whom without him had next to nothing. Tom never allowed his work to infiltrate his ego; in all things, he was level headed and kind. He took pleasure in helping those less fortunate.
Throughout his experiences in conflict-ravished nations, Tom had always had one major responsibility. He, along with a number of others like him, had always lead civilians and children out of combat zones. After Desert Storm, he helped treat wounded Kuwaiti citizens; In Chechnya, he helped evacuate civilians from Grozny during the Russian siege. Through all of this, he had seen the cost of human greed and hunger for power. He was a wiser man because of it.
After fifteen years of helping those without hope, he felt it was time to stop--at least for now. He had no doubt that he would return to his work one day; yet there comes a point when in helping others, oneself can be left neglected. This is why Tom bought the house.
The next day he scribbled his signature on the deed, and felt the jingle of the keys as they dropped into his palm.
