**Diary Entry**
No one knew his name. He was just a thin, nine-year-old boy with a slightly torn jumper. Every afternoon after school, he’d stop outside the local shoe shop. There he’d stand, motionless, staring at the red trainers in the window. He never touched the glass. Never made a sound. Just looked.
One day, the shopkeeper, Mr. Edwards, stepped outside and asked, “Do you like those?” The boy glanced down and whispered, “No, sir. I’m just remembering.” Mr. Edwards frowned. So the boy explained, “They were just like my brother’s. But he’s gone now… and I don’t want to forget what they looked like.”
Mr. Edwards fell silent, his voice unsteady. That evening, he wrapped the trainers in a box and gave them to the boy—but it wasn’t just a gift. He said, “Whenever you wear them, remember—brothers aren’t remembered by what’s on their feet, but by what they leave in your heart.”
The boy took them home but didn’t wear them straight away. He placed the box in the corner, next to his brother’s photo. Every afternoon, instead of gazing at the shop window, he’d look at that box. And when he finally slipped them on, it wasn’t to run or play. It was to walk to the park where he and his brother used to sit, settling onto the same bench… and smiling.
Because sometimes, things aren’t just things. They’re bridges. They’re ways of holding on. They’re how we keep loving without ever saying goodbye.
