The night of a normal weekday was busy in the metro. I was sitting near the window.
At the next stop, the car’s doors opened and a ten-year-old child climbed inside. He looked as though he had run from class, with his rumpled shorts, unkempt hair, and one shabby sneaker in his hand. But more significantly, he had no shoes. On one foot he wore a thin striped sock. He tried to fit in by finding an empty seat between two individuals.
Everyone around him continued to notice him. When someone went for their phone out of the blue, someone else gave them a stern look and immediately pretended to be very focused. The man seated on the boy’s right, though, looked different.
He wore a bulky jacket, paint-stained jeans, and heavy boots for work. He continued to stare at the boy’s bare feet before turning to face his baggage. He had a thought.
Two stops were made. Then another. At the fourth stop, he suddenly leaned forward, cleared his throat loudly enough for everyone to hear, and let out a startling cry.
Be mindful. I just bought my son some sneakers. But he will probably be successful. He still has a pair that are in good shape. You seem to care more about them.
He took out a box from within his rucksack. I lifted the lid. New blue sneakers with tags inside were present.
The child apparently did not understand. First, the shoes. The man came next. Let’s go back to the shoes now. He carefully placed them on. They fit perfectly, too.
He lifted his head and a tentative smile appeared on his lips. In a nearly hushed voice, he said:
Thank you.
The man appeared nonchalant and shrugged:
Just give back. anytime you can.
The boy got off at the next station. He was no longer slouched and wore brand-new sneakers. He carried something more significant than shoes: faith in other people.
