I found an extension lead running from my neighbor’s garage into the socket on the back of my house. I confronted him: “That’s my power you’re using. It’s on MY meter!” He laughed: “C’mon, it’s only pennies!” So I installed a lockable cover. This morning, I froze when I found a note through my letterbox saying: “Youโre colder than your electricity, mate.”
I stared at the note for a while. At first, I was angry. Then a bit confused. Thenโฆ strangely, I felt guilty.
I didnโt know why. I wasnโt the one stealing power. Still, the words hit something in me. Maybe it was the โmateโ at the end. We used to be, sort of.
His name was Ron. He’d lived next door for about ten years. Always fixing up old things in his garage. Radios, bikes, furniture. A few years ago, he lost his wife, Maureen. Cancer. After that, he kept to himself more.
We used to talk more. Barbecue in the summer, swap lawnmowers, that kind of thing. But after Maureen passed, he sort of shrank into his garage and left the world outside.
I tried to keep the connection going. Knocked on his door once or twice with extra soup or pie. He always thanked me, but never invited me in.
So when I saw the extension lead last week, I snapped. I thought, “That’s it. I’m not a charity.” I didn’t stop to wonder why he might need the power. I just bought the lockable cover and screwed it in tight.
And now, this note.
“Youโre colder than your electricity, mate.”
I tucked it in my coat pocket and went about my day, but it stayed with me like a pebble in my shoe.
That evening, I looked out my kitchen window. Ron’s garage was dark. It had been for a few nights now. His lights were always dim anyway, but now, pitch black. No movement. No sound of that old radio of his crackling in the background.
Out of some uneasy feeling, I walked over.
I knocked. No answer. I called out. Nothing.
Then I saw him through the small frosted windowโon the floor.
I climbed the fence and rushed inside. The door was unlocked. He was breathing, but barely. I called an ambulance.
Turned out Ron had diabetes. He hadnโt been eating right. Said the fridge stopped working a week ago and he hadnโt the money to fix it. His electricity had been cut off. Thatโs why heโd run the lead.
He didnโt want to tell anyone. He didnโt want to feel like a burden.
The paramedics said if I hadnโt come when I did, he mightโve slipped away.
That night, I sat in my living room, staring at the blank TV screen. My chest felt tight. I hadnโt just locked the power. Iโd locked him out too.
When Ron got out of hospital a few days later, I visited him. Brought over some groceries and a portable heater.
He didnโt say much. Just nodded and said, โThanks.โ
I said, โIโm sorry.โ
He looked surprised. โFor what?โ
โFor not asking,โ I said. โI couldโve helped.โ
Ron sat back in his chair. โItโs not your job to help, mate.โ
โNo,โ I said. โBut I shouldโve anyway.โ
He smiled then. A small, tired smile. โWell, thanks for unlocking that part of you.โ
We both chuckled.
In the following weeks, I helped Ron set up a budget plan with the energy company. Got him some second-hand appliances. Even called a friend of mine who fixed his garage roof for free.
Other neighbors started showing up too. Itโs funnyโwhen one person reaches out, others follow. One brought soup. Another brought blankets. A local electrician donated some LED lights for his garage workspace.
Ron began to brighten. He fixed a neighborโs lawnmower. Repaired a kidโs broken scooter. And slowly, that spark came back in his eyes.
A month later, he knocked on my door.
โI need your socket again,โ he grinned.
I raised an eyebrow.
โJust for today,โ he said. โBig surprise coming.โ
I gave in. We both knew he didnโt need it. But he wanted it for something else.
That evening, the surprise arrived.
In the middle of my lawn stood a handmade wooden bench. With carvings of birds on the side. Ron had made it. From leftover wood in his garage. Heโd used my power tools tooโwithout asking, of courseโbut this time, I didnโt mind.
It had a plaque on it: โThe Cord Between Us.โ
I laughed out loud. โReally?โ
He said, โYeah. You thought the cord was about stealing electricity. But maybe it was something else, eh?โ
I shook my head. โYouโre a stubborn old man, Ron.โ
He tapped the bench. โAnd you’re a decent one, deep down.โ
I sat beside him. We watched the sunset in silence. The power socket on the side of my house was still locked. But something else had been opened.
Weeks passed. Then months. Ron started volunteering at a repair shop for low-income families. Fixing heaters, fans, radios. Word spread. People respected him. Kids admired him.
One evening, he showed me a letter.
It was from a woman whoโd heard about him from a Facebook post. Her father, once a repairman, had passed away last year. She said Ron reminded her of him.
He teared up while reading it. โFunny, isnโt it? One extension lead… and now this.โ
I nodded. โThe cord that keeps on giving.โ
Eventually, Ron told me he was thinking of moving. Not far, just into a smaller place closer to the town center. Easier access. More people. Less loneliness.
He said, โItโs time.โ
We packed his things together. On the last day, we sat on the bench again. He left it for me.
Before leaving, he looked me in the eye. โThat note I left youโฆ the one that said youโre colder than your electricityโฆโ
โYeah?โ
โI wrote it half as a joke. But also half hoping you’d come over and say something.โ
โWell,โ I said, โyou got me.โ
Ron patted my shoulder. โThanks for plugging back in.โ
After he left, I kept the bench on my lawn. People passing by would ask about it. Iโd tell them the story. Some laughed. Some teared up. All of them understood.
A year later, I received a package. No return address.
Inside was a small wooden carving of two houses, side by side, with a wire running between them. On the back, it read: โItโs not the power you share. Itโs the warmth.โ
There are so many ways we disconnect from each other. Sometimes it starts small. A locked socket. A missed hello. A withheld kindness.
But sometimes, reconnection can start just as small. A note. A knock. A bench.
We think it takes big gestures to fix things. But maybe all it takes is remembering that behind every locked door, there’s a story.
I keep that wooden carving on my windowsill. It reminds me to ask, to notice, to reach out.
Because sometimes, the things we plug into aren’t just outlets. They’re people.
And sometimes, the best current we can offerโฆ is care.
If this story made you feel somethingโif it reminded you of someone or made you think of reaching outโplease give it a like and share it. You never know who might need that small spark today.




