Other times, he would stop talking completely when certain topics came up. It became most obvious whenever I asked simple questions about his home. “David, where do you stay?” I asked one morning while arranging goods. He froze for a moment, his hand still holding the broom. He didn’t look at me. “I stay around,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Around where?” I asked gently. He shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. “I just stay around,” he repeated, this time more quietly. I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t push. Still, something in his tone stayed with me. It wasn’t just shyness. There was fear mixed in.
But even with the hidden pain he carried, I couldn’t deny that his presence brightened my days. The shop felt warmer when he was around. He helped without complaining. He laughed at small things. And each time he finished sweeping, he would look at me with those gentle eyes and ask if there was anything else he could do. I didn’t know his full story yet, but I could feel that whatever he was hiding was something deep.
And somehow, I also felt that our lives were slowly becoming connected in a way I didn’t fully understand yet. That evening, after we closed the shop, David thanked me as usual and said he would see me the next morning. He walked away with his small steps, holding the leftover food I had packed for him.
I watched him go and something in my heart wouldn’t let me rest. The way he always avoided questions about home, the way he looked whenever I mentioned family, it didn’t sit right. So, for the first time, I followed him. I stayed far behind so he wouldn’t notice. He walked through different small paths, moving quickly like someone used to avoiding attention.
After a while, I wondered if maybe I was overthinking everything. Maybe he lived with a distant relative. Maybe he just didn’t like talking about home. But as he kept walking farther, my worry grew. Finally, he stopped in front of an uncompleted building. The place looked abandoned. No windows, no doors, just blocks and a bare floor.
He stepped inside like he had done it a hundred times. I held my breath, watching from the corner of the wall. He placed his small food pack on the ground and sat on a pile of old blocks. That was when I noticed he had a thin piece of cloth spread on one side, as if it was his bed. There were no lights, no protection, no adults anywhere.
Just an empty building and a little boy trying to survive. My chest tightened. I covered my mouth with my hand as tears filled my eyes. No child deserved to live like this. No child should be alone at night in a place like that. I watched him quietly eat his food looking tired and lonely in a way that cuts deep.
I stepped back before he could see me. I didn’t want to embarrass him or make him feel watched. As soon as I reached the main road, the tears came freely. I couldn’t stop crying. Every image of him sitting alone in that dark place replayed in my mind. It broke something inside me. By the time I reached home, my mother noticed immediately.
“What happened?” “Why are you crying?” she asked holding my shoulder. I tried to speak, but the words got stuck. I wiped my tears and finally told her everything. How I followed him, how I found him, how he lived alone with no parent guardian, how he never said a word about his suffering. My mother gasped softly and sat down.
“A little boy living there alone?” “Yes,” I said crying again. “He has nobody. He’s been surviving by himself.” He held my hand. “We can’t leave him like that.” Her voice was calm, but I could see the concern in her eyes. I felt both relieved and overwhelmed. I never imagined the boy I had been helping every morning was carrying a burden this heavy.
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