The underpass buzzed with hurried footsteps echoing off the cold walls. Amid the rush, 14-year-old Martin sat cross-legged by the wall, his worn shoe-shining kit neatly arranged before him. His eyes scanned the crowd, hope flickering each time a polished shoe clicked nearby.
“Just a handful,” he whispered to himself. “Just a handful of customers today, please.”
His stomach growled. Breakfast had been nothing more than two thin slices of bread. He sipped from his battered water bottle to ease the hunger, then forced a smile.
“You can do this, Martin. For Mom. For Josephine.”
The thought of his paralyzed mother and little sister waiting at home gave him strength.
The Encounter
Hours dragged by. Not a single customer stopped. Martin finally reached into his leather bag for his tiny orange, his only lunch. Just as he began peeling it, a pair of scuffed brown shoes landed in front of him with a heavy thud.
“Hurry up, kid. Shine them. I don’t have all day,” barked a sharp voice.
Martin looked up at the tall, expensively dressed man towering over him. His pulse quickened — maybe this customer would pay well.
“Of course, sir!” Martin said eagerly, setting aside his orange.
He polished as quickly and carefully as possible, but the man’s impatience grew.
“What’s taking so long? I’ve got meetings to attend!”
“I’ll be done in a moment, sir. I promise they’ll look great,” Martin replied nervously.
The man — Sylvester — sneered. “At your age, I was already making more than my father ever did. I wasn’t sitting in a filthy tunnel shining shoes like a beggar.”
The words cut deep. Martin’s father had died three years earlier in a drunk-driving crash, leaving their family broken. Months later, his mother suffered a stroke, paralyzing her. At just eleven, Martin had stepped into his father’s shoes, shining leather for strangers to keep food on the table.
He kept silent and focused on finishing the job.
When Sylvester inspected the shoes, he scoffed. “This is pathetic. My dog’s tongue could do better!”
Martin flushed with shame. “I’m sorry, sir. I can redo it—”
“Forget it,” Sylvester snapped, pulling out his phone. “Yeah, it’s me. Reschedule my meeting to four. I’ve been delayed by some incompetent brat.”
Martin bit his lip and remembered his father’s lessons: It’s not just about shine, son. It’s about dignity. Treat every shoe like it matters.
Gathering courage, Martin said quietly, “That’ll be seven dollars, sir.”
“Seven?!” Sylvester bellowed. “For this? Not a chance.” He snatched his shoes and stormed off.
“Wait!” Martin cried, running after him. “Please, sir! I need that money—”
But Sylvester had already sped away in his sleek car, leaving Martin empty-handed.
Martin slumped against the wall, tears streaming. Looking upward, he whispered, “I’m trying, Dad. I’m really trying.”
Fate Intervenes
The very next morning, Martin set up his kit again, his heart heavy but determined.
Suddenly, a woman’s scream shattered the noise of the crowd.
“Help! Someone help!”
Martin bolted toward the commotion. A fancy car sat surrounded by panicked onlookers. Inside, a man was clawing at his throat, face turning blue.
Martin froze. It was Sylvester.
“He’s choking!” someone shouted. “But the doors are locked!”
Without hesitation, Martin grabbed a rock, smashed the window, and yanked the door open.
“Stand back!” he ordered, dragging Sylvester out. He delivered sharp blows to his back until a chunk of apple flew out.
Sylvester collapsed, gasping.
“You… saved me,” he rasped, eyes wide with shock.
Martin steadied him. “Are you alright, sir?”
Sylvester looked stricken. “After how I treated you yesterday… Why did you help me?”
“Because it was the right thing to do,” Martin answered simply.
Tears welled in Sylvester’s eyes. “I was awful to you. Let me make it right. Name your price.”
Martin hesitated, then said softly, “Just the seven dollars you owed me.”
Sylvester stared, stunned. “Seven dollars… that’s all? Kid, you deserve far more. A new start, maybe?”
Martin shook his head. “I don’t need a new start. I just need to take care of my family.”
Reluctantly, Sylvester pressed the money into Martin’s hand. As the crowd dispersed, he lingered. “What’s your name?”
“Martin.”
Sylvester nodded. “I won’t forget you, Martin. Not ever.”
The Twist
The following morning, Martin was jolted awake by his little sister’s shrieks of excitement.
“Marty! Come outside! Quick!”
He rushed to the door, his mother wheeling after him. On the doorstep sat a heavy white bag stuffed with cash.
A note was tied on top. Martin unfolded it with trembling fingers:
Thanks is too small a word for what you did. I know you’d refuse this, but you deserve happiness. It only took an hour to find where you live — the world is small. I hope we meet again. Stay pure, stay kind.
— Sylvester
Martin’s breath caught in his throat. His mother stared, stunned, and Josephine squealed with joy.
“This could pay for my treatments,” his mother whispered. “For Josephine’s school… for everything.”
Martin carried the note to the family altar. Two scraps of paper lay before him: one marked “REMEMBER,” the other “FORGET.” He closed his eyes, shuffled them, and prayed.
“Dad, help me choose.”
He unfolded one. “REMEMBER.”
A smile tugged at his lips. He would accept — not for himself, but for his family. He would remember his father’s lessons and the miracle of second chances.
“Josephine!” he called, tears brimming. “Tell Mom we’re going to the doctor today. Then we’ll stop for ice cream. And buy a new mattress for Mom, and groceries for the whole week!”
His sister’s laughter rang out as Martin clutched Sylvester’s note to his chest.
He had remembered — and in doing so, found hope for their future.