No one knew his name.
He was a scrawny nine-year-old lad with a slightly torn jumper. Every afternoon after school, he’d walk past the local shoe shop in the neighbourhood. He’d stop there, completely still, staring at the red trainers hanging in the window. He never touched the glass. Never made a sound. Just looked.
One day, the shopkeeper, Mr. Thompson, decided to step outside and ask him, “Do you like those?”
The boy looked down and mumbled, “No, sir. I’m just remembering them.”
Mr. Thompson was confused. So the boy explained, “They were just like the ones my brother had. But he’s gone now… and I don’t want to forget what they looked like.”
Mr. Thompson went quiet. His voice shook. That evening, he wrapped the trainers up in a box and gave them to the boy. But it wasn’t just any gift. He said, “Every time you wear these, remember—brothers aren’t remembered by what’s on their feet… but by what they leave in your heart.”
The boy took the trainers home but didn’t wear them straight away. He put them in a corner, next to a photo of his brother. Every afternoon, instead of staring at the shop window, he’d look at that box. And when he finally put them on, it wasn’t to run around or play. It was to go to the park where he used to go with his brother, sit on the same bench… and smile.
Because sometimes, things aren’t just things. They’re bridges. Ways to hold on. Ways to keep loving without having to say goodbye.
