When humanity was born, the universe handed us a lease agreement. It was written in fine stardust print: “You may occupy Earth for an indefinite term. Conditions: No permanent ownership. No extensions. Return everything in reasonable condition.” Nobody read it, of course. We were too busy inventing mirrors and arguing about who looked best in them. Centuries passed. We built towers so tall they poked the clouds, carved mountains for shiny rocks, and fought over imaginary lines on maps. All the while, the lease clock ticked silently in the background. One day, a cosmic landlord might knock and say, “Time’s up. Hope you didn’t scratch the planet too much.” And what will we say? That we were too busy being clever to be kind? Life is on loan, friends. We’re all temporary tenants in a strange, spinning apartment with no security deposit. So maybe—just maybe—stop slamming doors, share the sunlight, and leave the place better than you found it. Because when the keys are collected, kindness will be the only thing that wasn’t rented.