The underground passage buzzed with the rush of hurried feet and the occasional shout. Fourteen-year-old Martin sat close to the cold wall, his small shoe-shining kit spread carefully on the floor. His eyes flicked up at every passerby, silently pleading.
“Just a handful… just one customer today, please,” he whispered under his breath.
Hours passed slowly. His stomach growled loudly in protest. The meager breakfast of two dry slices of bread felt like a distant memory. He picked up his water bottle and sipped slowly, trying to ignore the pangs of hunger.
“You can do this, Martin,” he murmured, forcing courage into his voice. “For Mom… and Josephine.”
The thought of his mother, paralyzed after her stroke, and his little sister waiting at home gave him strength. He straightened his back, plastered on his best smile, and called out to passersby.
“Shoe shine, sir? Ma’am? Fancy a polish today?”
The day dragged on. People brushed past, too busy, too distracted. Martin’s hope sank, but he refused to give up. Finally, as the sun poured into the dusty underpass, he allowed himself a small comfort. Digging into his worn leather bag, he pulled out a small orange—the only food he had for lunch.
Just as he began to peel it, a heavy thud stopped him. A pair of dirty, brown leather shoes landed in front of him.
“Hurry up, kid! Clean it! I’m in a rush!” barked a gruff voice.
Martin’s heart leapt. He looked up and saw a man dressed in expensive clothes, polished shoes, and a diamond watch glinting on his wrist. Wealth radiated from every inch of him. This could be the customer he’d been hoping for.
“Right away, sir!” Martin said, setting the orange aside and reaching for his brushes and polish.
But the man’s impatience was sharp. “What’s taking so long? I don’t have all day!”
Martin’s hands shook slightly, but he focused, determined to give the best shine he could. “Almost done, sir. I promise it’ll look great.”
The man scoffed. “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 chest tightened. It had been three years since a drunk driver took his father, leaving their family broken. He still remembered the night—the screeching tires, the crunch of metal, and the dreadful silence afterward.
Then, just months later, his mother’s stroke left her paralyzed. At eleven, he had taken on the role of provider, trading a childhood for responsibility. Every day was a struggle—but he had no choice. He had a family to care for.
“You call this shining?” the man sneered, bending over to inspect his shoes. “My dog could do a better job with his tongue!”
Martin’s cheeks burned with shame. “I-I’m sorry, sir… I can try again—”
“Forget it!” the man snapped, pulling out his phone. “Yeah, Sylvester here. Reschedule the meeting to 4. I’ll be late thanks to this incompetent brat.”
As Sylvester ranted into his phone, Martin’s mind drifted to better times, to his father’s hands guiding him.
“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.”
“Hey! Are you even listening?” Sylvester barked, yanking Martin back. “What’s your father doing, sending you out here like this? Too lazy to work himself, huh?”
“My father… he passed away, sir,” Martin said, trying to keep his voice steady.
Sylvester’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?”
Martin clenched his fists but kept his polite smile. “That’ll be $7, sir.”
“SEVEN DOLLARS?” Sylvester exploded. “For this pathetic excuse of a shine? I don’t think so, kid.”
Before Martin could respond, Sylvester grabbed his shoes and stormed off. Martin chased him, desperate.
“Wait! Please, sir! I need that money! Please!”
But the man was gone, swallowed by the traffic. Martin slumped against the wall, tears running freely. He whispered to the sky, imagining his father’s face.
“I’m trying, Dad. I’m really trying.”
His father’s voice echoed in his memory: “Never give up, son. Each bump is a step closer to your dreams. Remember.”
The next morning, Martin returned to his usual spot, setting up with renewed determination. A sudden scream pierced the underpass.
“Help! Someone help!”
Martin’s heart jumped. He ran toward the noise. A crowd had gathered near a fancy car, and to his shock, he saw him—Sylvester.
“He’s choking on an apple! The doors are locked!” someone shouted.
Without thinking, Martin grabbed a rock and smashed the car window. Shards flew everywhere. He reached in and unlocked the door.
“Stand back!” he shouted, yanking Sylvester out onto the pavement. He pounded sharply on Sylvester’s back, and suddenly a chunk of apple flew from his mouth. Sylvester gasped for air.
“You… you saved me,” Sylvester wheezed, eyes wide and shocked.
Martin helped him to his feet, shaking. “Are you okay, sir?”
Sylvester nodded, still catching his breath. “I… 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.”
Tears filled Sylvester’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, kid. I was horrible. Please, let me make it up to you. Name your price. Anything!”
Martin thought for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Just the $7 from yesterday. That’s all I want.”
Sylvester blinked, stunned. “But… I could give you so much more. A new start, maybe?”
“I don’t need a new start, sir. I need to take care of my family.”
Reluctantly, Sylvester handed over the money. As the crowd dispersed, he lingered. “You’re quite something, kid. What’s your name?”
“Martin, sir.”
Sylvester nodded slowly. “Martin… I won’t forget this… or you.”
Martin clutched the hard-earned money, looking at the sky. “I remember, Dad,” he whispered. “I always do.”
The next morning, Martin’s sister screamed with joy.
“Marty! Marty! Come quick!”
They ran outside and found a white bag full of cash with a note. Martin read it aloud with trembling hands:
“Thanks is too small a 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 small, isn’t it? Hope we meet again someday, and I hope you’re just as pure-hearted as I saw yesterday! —Sylvester”
Tears filled Martin’s eyes. His sister jumped up and down, and their mother wheeled to the door, shocked.
“Martin? What’s going on?”
Martin’s mind raced. The money could help his mom’s treatment, Josephine’s education, their groceries… their whole life. But was it right to accept it?
He grabbed two small papers: one read “REMEMBER,” the other “FORGET.” Lighting a candle before the crucifix, he whispered, “Dad, help me make the right choice.”
He picked a paper. “REMEMBER.”
A smile lit his face. He would accept the money—for his family. He would remember his father’s lessons, his struggles, and the goodness that can exist even in the hardest hearts.
“Josephine!” he called, voice shaking with excitement. “Go tell Mom we’re going to the doctor today. And then… maybe ice cream on the way home! Get Mom a new comfy mattress! And lots of groceries for the week!”
Josephine’s delighted squeals filled the air. Martin held Sylvester’s note to his chest. He had remembered—and found a way forward.