I opened early, and he would appear a few minutes later, standing quietly at the door with that small polite smile.
I gave him food. He always said thank you. He never demanded more. He never acted entitled. He ate like someone who had learned not to expect generosity to last.
Even when I told him he didn’t need to help, he insisted on doing small chores. Sweeping the front of the shop. Wiping the counter. Arranging chairs. Carrying small loads for customers.
He did it with quiet sincerity, not desperation. Customers began to like him immediately. Some people even asked if he was my son.
David would blush and shake his head shyly.
But as the days passed, I noticed something else.
A sadness he tried to hide behind those small smiles. Sometimes I caught him staring into space like he was holding a heavy thought. Sometimes he went completely silent when certain topics came up, especially anything about family or home.
One morning, while I arranged goods, I asked again, softer this time.
“David, where do you stay?”
He froze, broom still in his hand.
“I stay around,” he said.
“Around where?”
He shifted, uncomfortable. “Just… around.”
He said it like a locked door.
I let it go, but the fear in his tone stayed with me.
That evening, after we closed the shop, David thanked me as usual and walked away with leftover food I packed for him.
And something in my heart refused to rest.
So for the first time, I followed him.
I stayed far behind. I didn’t want him to notice. I didn’t want to embarrass him. I just needed to know he was safe.
David took small paths, moving quickly like someone used to avoiding attention. The farther he went, the more my worry grew.
Then he stopped in front of an uncompleted building.
