I liked those days. Quiet days felt safe.
Then one afternoon, I was about to eat the food I brought from home when I saw a small boy standing near the entrance of my shop.
He was staring at my plate the way thirsty people stare at rain clouds. His clothes were dirty, his hair matted in places, and his eyes looked older than his face. He couldn’t have been more than eight, maybe nine. But hunger has a way of stealing childhood quickly.
He didn’t speak at first. He just hovered close enough to hope, far enough to avoid rejection.
I swallowed hard and asked gently, “Are you hungry?”
He nodded once, like even that movement required courage.
“What’s your name?”
“David,” he whispered.
His voice was soft, as if it had learned not to take up space.
“Come,” I said, before I could overthink it. I held out my plate. “Eat.”
He stared like he didn’t understand permission. Then he took it with both hands, as if the food might disappear if he held it loosely. He sat on the step beside my shop and ate fast, but not greedily. There was a certain shame in the way he kept his eyes down, as if hunger was something he needed to apologize for.
Watching him made something old ache inside me. It brought back the memory of my mother crying quietly at night, thinking I was asleep, because she didn’t know how to stretch one small bag of rice into a full week.
When David finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at me with a small, tired smile.
“Thank you, Auntie,” he said.
His smile was tiny, but real.
Then he stood up and walked away without asking for anything else, without trying to linger where kindness lived.
I watched him go, and my heart didn’t settle.
That night, I told my mother about him. She listened, her face tightening with worry the way it always did when children were involved.
“Did you ask where his parents are?” she asked.
My stomach sank.
