USA. I bumped a man’s cart with mine. A small thing. I bowed and began to apologize, properly. He said, “No worries.” I stopped. No worries. He had taken my worry — my fault, my debt, my small dishonor — lifted it off me, set it upon himself, and told me to carry it no more. A stranger. In a cereal aisle. Just like that. In my country, a wrong is carried until it is repaid. Here, a man simply takes it from you, for free, and tells you to go in peace. I could not let such a gift go unanswered. So I followed him, at a respectful distance, searching for a worry of his own that I might lift in return. I returned a can to a high shelf he had eyed. I warned him, gently, of a wet-floor sign. When his phone slipped, I caught it before it landed. He turned. “...are you following me?” “I am repaying you,” I said, bowing. “You took my worries. Allow me to carry some of yours.” He looked at me a long moment. Then he smiled. “Honestly? That’s the nicest weird thing anybody’s done for me all week.” We parted as two men who had each, quietly, carried something for the other. So tell me, America. You say “no worries” and forget it in a single breath. I heard it as a vow, and I will pass this kindness to my children’s children. The aisle was only cereal. The exchange was everything.