“David!” I shouted.
He turned, startled, then ran toward me.
When he reached me, water dripping from his hair, I grabbed his shoulders. “Why didn’t you run from the rain?”
He lifted his chin, trying to look strong. “I’m a strong boy.”
His words hit me strangely. It didn’t sound like confidence. It sounded like a speech he had practiced to survive.
I brought out my packed food and gave it to him again. He ate quickly, relief softening his face like sunlight breaking through clouds.
After he finished, I handed him water and sat beside him.
“David,” I said gently, “where are your parents?”
His body stiffened. His eyes dropped to his hands. For several seconds, he didn’t respond.
Then he forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “They are fine. They are waiting for me.”
But his voice didn’t match the words. It sounded like a child repeating a line because it was safer than truth.
I didn’t push. I simply nodded.
Still, I knew.
A child with parents waiting doesn’t beg in the rain. A child with parents waiting doesn’t wear hunger like a second skin.
I looked at him, small fingers pinching the edge of his shirt, suddenly looking much younger than his brave words.
So I made a decision that felt simple at the time.
“Instead of begging every day,” I told him, “come here. When you’re hungry, come to my shop.”
His eyes widened. “Every day?”
“Yes.”
He nodded fast, as if he was afraid I would change my mind. “Thank you, Auntie.”
From that day, David came every morning.
