The underground passage hummed with the noise of people rushing by, each step echoing off the cold concrete walls. Amidst the chaos, 14-year-old Martin sat on the ground, his small shoe-shining kit laid out before him. His eyes scanned the crowd, his heart silently begging for a customer.
“Just a handful today,” he whispered to himself. “Just a handful… please.”
His stomach growled in protest. The two slices of bread he’d had for breakfast felt like they had been eaten days ago. He reached for his water bottle and took a slow sip, trying to fight back the hunger that gnawed at him.
“You can do this, Martin,” he muttered. “For Mom… for Josephine.”
His mother, paralyzed after a stroke, and his little sister, Josephine, were waiting for him at home. They were his reason for everything. With a deep breath, he forced a smile, ready to face another long day.
“Shoe shine, sir? Ma’am?” he called out, his voice barely above a whisper, lost in the noise of the underpass.
The hours dragged by, and Martin’s hope began to fade. No one stopped. His back ached from sitting so long, and the small, empty space he occupied seemed even lonelier. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, he allowed himself a moment of rest. He dug into his worn bag and pulled out a small orange—the only lunch he had for the day.
But just as he started peeling it, a pair of dirty brown leather shoes landed in front of him with a heavy thud.
“Hurry up, kid,” a gruff voice demanded. “I’m in a rush.”
Martin’s heart skipped a beat. He looked up and saw a man towering over him, dressed in expensive clothes. The man’s shiny watch and polished shoes screamed wealth. This could be his big chance—the tip that would help him get through the week.
“Right away, sir!” Martin quickly set aside the orange, reaching for his polish and cloth, eager to please.
The man didn’t seem to care about the details. “What’s taking so long? I don’t have all day!”
Martin’s hands shook slightly as he worked, trying to focus. “Almost done, sir. I promise it’ll look great.”
The man scoffed, inspecting his shoe. “At your age, I was already making more than my father. I wasn’t shining shoes like some beggar.”
The words cut deep. Martin’s father had been killed by a drunk driver three years ago. The memory of that night haunted him—the screeching tires, the sickening crash, and the horrible moment when the police told him his father wouldn’t come home.
Just months later, his mother had suffered a stroke, leaving her paralyzed. Martin, still just a boy, had become the man of the house. He sacrificed his childhood, learning to shine shoes like his father once did, to keep food on the table for his family.
The sting of the man’s words was sharp, but Martin pushed it aside. He needed to focus. He needed to finish this job.
“You call this shining?” the man sneered. “My dog could do a better job with his tongue!”
Martin’s face burned with shame, but he forced himself to stay calm. “I’m sorry, sir. I can try again—”
“Forget it,” the man interrupted, pulling out his phone. “Yeah, Sylvester here. Reschedule the meeting to 4. I’ll be late thanks to this incompetent brat.”
As the man ranted into his phone, Martin’s thoughts drifted to better times. He remembered his father’s steady hands guiding him, teaching him the art of shoe shining.
“It’s not just about the shine, son,” his father had said, “it’s about dignity. Treat every shoe like it’s the most important one you’ll ever touch.”
Martin’s thoughts were interrupted when the man snapped at him again. “Are you even listening? What’s your father doing, sending you out here like this? Too lazy to work himself, huh?”
Martin’s throat tightened. “My father… he passed away, sir.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see. So your mother’s probably moved on with someone else, popping out more kids to send begging, right? Don’t you people have anything better to do?”
The words stung like a slap, but Martin clenched his fists at his sides, holding back his anger. “That’s $7, sir,” he said, his voice tight.
“SEVEN DOLLARS?” The man exploded. “For this pathetic excuse of a shine? I don’t think so, kid.”
Before Martin could respond, the man grabbed his shoes and stormed off, leaving Martin standing there, empty-handed, heartbroken.
“Wait!” Martin called, running after the man. “Please, sir! I need that money. Please!”
But the man was already in his car, speeding away, leaving Martin behind in a cloud of dust.
Martin collapsed against the wall, tears streaming down his face. He stared up at the sky, as if searching for some kind of answer.
“I’m trying, Dad,” he whispered. “I’m really trying.”
His father’s last words echoed in his mind: “Remember, son. Never give up. Each bump is a step closer to your dreams. Remember.”
He wiped away his tears, stood up, and brushed the dirt off his clothes. There was no time for pity. No time for sadness.
The next morning, Martin was back at his usual spot. He set up his kit with determination, hoping for a better day. Suddenly, a woman’s frantic cry echoed through the underpass.
“Help! Someone help!”
Martin’s heart raced. He rushed toward the sound of the voice and found a crowd gathered around a fancy car. To his shock, he saw the man from yesterday—Sylvester—inside the car, clutching his throat.
“He’s choking on an apple!” someone shouted. “The car doors are locked!”
Without a second thought, Martin grabbed a rock and smashed the window. The glass shattered with a loud crash, and he quickly reached in to unlock the door.
“Stand back!” he shouted as he pulled Sylvester out onto the pavement.
With all his strength, Martin delivered several sharp blows to Sylvester’s back. Suddenly, a chunk of apple flew from his mouth, and Sylvester gasped for air.
“You… you saved me,” Sylvester wheezed, looking up at Martin with wide, shocked eyes.
Martin helped him to his feet, his own hands trembling. “Are you okay, sir?”
Sylvester nodded, still trying to catch his breath. “I can’t believe it. After how I treated you yesterday… Why did you help me?”
Martin shrugged. “It was the right thing to do.”
Sylvester’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m so sorry, kid. I was horrible to you. Please, let me make it up to you. Name your price. Anything!”
Martin thought for a moment, then looked up. “Just the $7 from yesterday. That’s all I want.”
Sylvester stared at him, stunned. “But… I could give you so much more. A new start, maybe?”
Martin shook his head. “I don’t need a new start, sir. I just need to take care of my family.”
Reluctantly, Sylvester handed him the money. As the crowd slowly dispersed, he lingered, his eyes fixed on Martin’s face.
“You’re quite something, kid,” Sylvester said quietly. “What’s your name?”
“Martin, sir.”
Sylvester nodded slowly. “Martin. I won’t forget this… or you.”
As Sylvester walked away, Martin clutched the money in his hand, his heart light. He looked up at the sky, a small smile forming on his face.
“I remember, Dad,” he whispered. “I always do.”
The next morning, Martin was woken by his sister’s excited screams.
“Marty! Marty! Come quick!”
He rushed outside, his mother calling after them in confusion. And there, on their doorstep, was a white bag filled with cash and a note.
With trembling hands, Martin opened the note and read aloud:
“Thanks is a small word for what you did. I know you’d refuse this. But you deserve a happy childhood. Took me just an hour to find your address. The world’s a small place, isn’t it?! Hope we meet again someday, and I hope you’re just the pure heart of gold you are!
— Sylvester.”
Tears of joy filled Martin’s eyes. His sister jumped up and down with excitement, and their mother, seeing the money, called out in disbelief from inside the house.
“Martin? What’s going on?” she asked, her voice full of wonder.
Martin stood still for a moment, his mind racing. This money could change everything: his mother’s treatment, Josephine’s education, and their entire future. But was it right to accept it?
He walked to the small altar in their cottage and grabbed two pieces of paper. On one, he wrote “REMEMBER,” and on the other, “FORGET.” He folded them and shuffled them in his hands.
Lighting a candle, Martin closed his eyes and whispered, “Dad, help me make the right choice.”
Taking a deep breath, he picked up a folded piece of paper and slowly opened it. A small smile lit up his face as he read the word “REMEMBER.”
In that moment, Martin knew. He would accept the money, but not for himself—for his family. He would remember his father’s lessons and the kindness that could still exist, even in the hardest of hearts.
“Josephine!” he called out. “Go tell Mom we’re going to the doctor today. And then… maybe we’ll stop for ice cream on the way home. Get Mom a new comfy mattress. And lots of groceries for the entire week!”
Josephine’s delighted squeals filled the air as Martin held the note close to his chest. He had remembered. And in doing so, he had found a way forward.
