No one knew his name.
He was a scrawny lad of nine, with a slightly tattered jumper.
Every afternoon after school, he’d walk past the local cobbler’s shop.
There he’d stop, still as stone, gazing at the red trainers in the window.
He never touched the glass.
Never made a sound.
Just stared.
One day, the shopkeeper, Mr. Thompson, stepped out and asked,
“Fond of those, are you?”
The boy looked down and murmured,
“No, sir. Just remembering.”
Mr. Thompson frowned.
So the lad explained,
“They’re just like the ones my brother used to wear.
But he’s gone now… and I don’t want to forget how they looked.”
The old man’s voice shook.
That evening, he wrapped the trainers in a box and handed them to the boy.
But it wasn’t just a gift.
He said,
“Whenever 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 them home but didn’t put them on straightaway.
He placed them in a corner, beside a photo of his brother.
Every afternoon, instead of staring at the shop window, he’d look at that box.
And when he finally laced them up, it wasn’t to run or play.
It was to walk to the park where he and his brother used to sit,
to settle on their bench… and smile.
Because sometimes, things aren’t just things.
They’re bridges.
They’re ways to hold on.
They’re how we keep loving without ever saying goodbye.
*—Today I learnt that memories don’t fade if we carry them where they truly belong.*
