But when I lay down to sleep, David’s face floated behind my eyes. The way he held the plate. The way he ate without looking up. The way he thanked me as if gratitude was the only thing he owned.
Before I slept, I prayed for him. A simple prayer, the kind that comes from the center of the chest.
God, please watch over that boy.
The next day, when I opened my shop, I kept thinking about him. I tried to focus, but my mind kept wandering back to the small boy with old eyes.
Hours later, I saw him again.
He was begging along the road, moving from person to person with a cautious posture. Some people ignored him. Some waved him away as if he was a fly. A few looked guilty but kept walking.
Then it started to rain.
Not a gentle rain. A heavy, sudden rain that slapped the ground and turned dust into mud.
I expected David to run somewhere, to hide, to protect himself. But he didn’t. He just stood there, getting soaked, still asking for help as if the rain was nothing compared to hunger.
Something inside me snapped into motion.
“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.
