No one knew his name.
He was a thin boy of nine, his shirt slightly frayed at the edges.
Every afternoon, after school, he would pass by the cobbler’s shop in the neighbourhood.
There he would stand, perfectly still, gazing at the pair of red trainers displayed in the window.
He never touched the glass.
He never made a sound.
He only looked.
One day, the shopkeeper, Mr. Wilson, decided to step outside and ask,
—“Do you like those?”
The boy looked down and murmured,
—“No, sir. I’m just remembering them.”
Mr. Wilson didn’t understand.
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. Wilson fell silent.
His voice wavered.
That evening, he wrapped the trainers in a box and gave them to the boy.
But it wasn’t just a gift.
He said,
—“Every time you wear them, remember—brothers aren’t remembered by what’s on their feet…
they’re remembered by what they leave in your heart.”
The boy took the trainers home but didn’t wear them straight away.
He placed them in a corner, beside a photo of his brother.
Every afternoon, instead of staring at the shop window, he would look at the box.
And when he finally slipped them on, it wasn’t to run or play.
It was to walk to the park where he used to go with his brother, to sit on the same bench… and smile.
Because sometimes, objects aren’t just objects.
They’re bridges.
They’re ways of holding on.
They’re how we keep loving without ever saying goodbye.
