It began with a single post on social media.
Zunnie had just finished college and was still figuring out what came next. She didn't have a job lined up, no big plans — just a notebook full of ideas, a suitcase packed with hope, and a story that refused to stay quiet.
So she posted:
"I'm going on a Kindness Tour.
I want to visit every city that has an Umbrella Exchange. Meet the people behind them. Share their stories. And maybe… start a few more along the way.
If you'd like to join me — or host a stop — let's make this happen."
Within hours, messages poured in.
From students in Oregon who had launched their own school version.
From librarians in Chicago who placed umbrellas in hospital waiting rooms.
From volunteers in Texas who added blankets and hot cocoa to winter umbrellas.
And from strangers who simply said:
"Yes, please come here. We need something like this."
By spring, Zunnie had mapped out her route.
She called it:
"The Umbrella Exchange: A Journey of Small Things"
Her goal wasn't to speak at conferences or fill auditoriums. It was to sit with people — in bookstores, libraries, community centers, and under café awnings — and listen.
To learn how kindness was being shared in corners of the world she'd never seen.
And to leave something behind.
Always an umbrella.
Always a note.
Always a gift.
Just like the ones she once found.
Her first stop was in Portland, Oregon .
There, she met a group of high school students who had turned The Umbrella Exchange into a weekly after-school program. They made handmade cards, collected donations, and even created a wall of gratitude where anyone could write what they were thankful for.
One student handed her a folded piece of paper.
"This is why I care."
Inside was a drawing of two figures standing beneath one umbrella — one tall, one small.
"They reminded me I wasn't alone," the student said quietly.
Zunnie hugged her. "You're not."
In Austin, Texas , she visited a shelter for unhoused youth.
There, a volunteer named Marcus had started placing umbrellas near bus stops and food banks — each one filled with hygiene kits, encouraging notes, and sometimes, just a candy bar to remind someone they mattered.
"I used to be one of the people finding these umbrellas," he told her. "Now I get to leave them for others."
Zunnie smiled. "That's exactly how it's supposed to work."
As the tour continued, so did the stories.
A librarian in Boston who hosted monthly poetry nights around the theme of kindness.
A nurse in Seattle who left umbrellas in patient rooms with notes like:
"You don't have to be okay to be here."
A teacher in Atlanta who read The Umbrella Exchange to her class and asked her students to think about how they might carry the idea forward.
One girl wrote:
"I'm going to start leaving books on park benches. With notes inside. Just in case someone needs a story today."
Zunnie felt tears well up.
Because this was it.
This was what it was all about.
Not fame.
Not numbers.
Just hearts opening — slowly, gently — because someone once believed in a stranger enough to leave them an umbrella.
Back home, Jo read every update Zunnie sent.
Photos. Stories. New videos of young voices sharing what kindness meant to them.
Sometimes, she'd sit in the garden, beneath the willow tree, and imagine Daniel beside her.
He would've loved this.
He would've been proud.
She opened her journal and wrote:
"Some stories are meant to be passed on. Not kept, but given. Like umbrellas in the rain."
Then she tucked the notebook away and picked up a new umbrella.
Red ribbon tied neatly.
Note tucked inside.
Gift waiting.
And walked into the storm.
Because there was always someone who needed it.
And now, thanks to Zunnie, there were more hands ready to give.
More hearts ready to share.
More people walking in the same rain.
Together.