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The other woman nodded. “We always forget how it looks to someone seeing it for the first time.”
Lina stood frozen, her mind racing through policies, inventory counts, and imagined explanations she might have to give. Before she could speak, the first woman gestured around the room.
The second woman leaned forward. “Hotels replace these items constantly. Sometimes they’re thrown away, barely used. We realized a long time ago that if we asked kindly, we could collect enough to last months.”
They spoke without drama, without pride. Just fact.
“We travel between cities,” the first continued, “staying in one place long enough to gather supplies. Then we take everything back and distribute it. Soap, shampoo, toothpaste—things people don’t think about until they don’t have them.”
Lina felt the tension drain from her shoulders. The towering stacks no longer looked excessive or strange. They looked purposeful. Necessary. Quietly generous.
All the small requests suddenly rearranged themselves in her mind. The extra shampoo. The polite smiles. The gratitude that never felt performative. This wasn’t convenience. It was intention.
“I hope we didn’t cause any trouble,” one of the women added. “We always make sure it’s within policy.”
Lina shook her head, emotion tightening her throat. “No. Not at all.”
She handed them the keychains, suddenly aware of how small the gesture felt compared to what she was witnessing. The women accepted them with genuine delight, thanking her and the staff repeatedly.
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