The underground passage was alive with the sound of hurried footsteps, echoing through the narrow space. Amid the noise and chaos, 14-year-old Martin sat on the cold concrete floor, his worn-out shoe-shining kit laid out in front of him. He glanced up at the stream of people passing by, hoping for just one person to stop, praying for a customer.
“Just a handful,” Martin whispered to himself. “Just a handful today, please.”
His stomach growled loudly in protest, reminding him that the two dry slices of bread he’d eaten for breakfast felt like a distant memory. He reached for his water bottle and took a small sip, trying to quench the gnawing hunger inside him.
“You can do this, Martin,” he muttered under his breath. “For Mom and Josephine.”
The thought of his mother, who was paralyzed after a stroke, and his little sister Josephine, waiting for him at home, pushed him forward. He straightened up, plastered his best smile on his face, and called out to the people passing by.
“Shoe shine, sir? Ma’am?” His voice barely rose above the din of the crowded underpass, but he hoped someone would hear him.
Hours passed, but no one stopped. Martin’s hopes began to dwindle, but he refused to give up. The afternoon sun beat down through the cracks in the passage, and he allowed himself a brief moment to rest. Reaching into his old leather bag, he pulled out a small orange—his lunch for the day.
As he started peeling it, a pair of dirty brown leather shoes landed in front of him with a heavy thud.
“Hurry up, kid. Clean it. I’m in a rush,” a gruff voice barked.
Martin looked up, his heart racing. Standing above him was a man dressed in fine clothes, exuding wealth from head to toe. This could be it—the chance he had been waiting for. He might finally earn a decent tip.
“Right away, sir!” Martin said, setting his orange aside and reaching for his supplies.
The man stood impatiently, glancing at his watch. “What’s taking so long? I don’t have all day!” His voice was sharp.
Martin’s hands shook slightly as he worked, but he focused on giving his best service. “Almost done, sir. I promise it’ll look great.”
The man scoffed. “At your age, I was already making more than my father. I wasn’t shining shoes like some beggar.”
Those words hit Martin like a punch in the gut. It had been three long years since a drunk driver took his father’s life, leaving their family shattered. Martin could still hear the screech of tires, the sickening crunch of metal, and the terrible news that followed.
Just months after losing his father, his mother had suffered a stroke, leaving her paralyzed. At the age of eleven, Martin had taken on the role of the family provider, becoming a shoe shiner to support his mother and little sister, Josephine.
The pain of those memories threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced himself to stay focused. He had a job to finish. His family needed him.
“You call this shining?” the man sneered, looking down at his shoes. “My dog could do a better job with his tongue!”
Martin’s cheeks burned with humiliation. “I’m sorry, sir. I can try again—”
“Forget it,” the man snapped, pulling out his phone. “Yeah, Sylvester here. Reschedule the meeting to 4. I’ll be late, thanks to this incompetent brat.”
As Sylvester ranted into the phone, Martin’s mind wandered to happier times—times before everything changed. He remembered his father’s hands, gentle yet firm as he had taught Martin the art of shoe shining.
“It’s not just about the shine, son,” his father had said with a smile. “It’s about dignity. Treat every shoe like it’s the most important one you’ll ever touch.”
Martin shook the thought away. He couldn’t afford to get lost in memories. He had to keep going.
“Hey! Are you even listening?” Sylvester’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “What’s your father doing, sending you out here like this? Too lazy to work himself, huh?”
Martin’s throat tightened. “My father… he passed away, sir.”
Sylvester’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see. So your mother’s probably moved on with someone else, popping out more kids to send begging, right? Don’t you people have anything better to do?”
Martin’s fists clenched at his sides, but he forced a polite smile. “That’s $7, sir.”
“SEVEN DOLLARS?” Sylvester exploded. “For this pathetic excuse of a shine? I don’t think so, kid.”
Before Martin could respond, Sylvester grabbed his shoes and stormed off, leaving Martin empty-handed and heartbroken.
“Wait!” Martin called out, chasing after him. “Please, sir! I need that money. Please!”
But Sylvester was already in his car, speeding away. The dust settled around Martin, and he slumped against the wall, tears of frustration and despair streaming down his face.
He looked up at the sky, imagining his father’s face.
“I’m trying, Dad,” Martin whispered. “I’m really trying.”
His father’s words echoed in his mind: “Remember, son. Never give up. Each bump is a step closer to your dreams. Remember.”
Wiping his tears, Martin took a deep breath and stood up. There was no time for self-pity. No time for tears. His family was depending on him.
The next morning, Martin was back in the underpass, setting up his kit with renewed determination. Suddenly, a woman’s frantic voice pierced the air.
“Help! Someone help!”
Without a second thought, Martin sprinted toward the commotion, his heart pounding in his chest.
A crowd had gathered around a fancy car, and to his surprise, the man in the car was none other than Sylvester—the same man who had insulted him the day before.
“He’s choking on an apple!” someone yelled. “The car doors are locked!”
Martin didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a rock from the ground and smashed the car window. Glass shattered, and he reached in to unlock the door.
“Stand back!” Martin shouted as he pulled Sylvester out onto the pavement.
With all his strength, Martin gave Sylvester several sharp blows on the back. Suddenly, a chunk of apple flew from Sylvester’s mouth, and he gasped for air.
“You… you saved me,” Sylvester wheezed, his wide eyes staring at Martin in shock.
Martin helped him to his feet, his own hands trembling. “Are you okay, sir?”
Sylvester nodded, still catching his breath. “I can’t believe it. After how I treated you yesterday… Why did you help me?”
Martin shrugged, his voice steady. “It was the right thing to do.”
Sylvester’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry, kid. I was horrible to you. Please, let me make it up to you. Name your price. Anything!”
Martin thought for a moment, then said, “Just the $7 from yesterday. That’s all I want.”
Sylvester stared at him, taken aback. “But… I could give you so much more. A new start, maybe?”
Martin shook his head. “I don’t need a new start, sir. I just need to take care of my family.”
Reluctantly, Sylvester handed him the $7. As the crowd dispersed, he lingered, studying Martin’s face. “You’re quite something, kid. What’s your name?”
“Martin, sir.”
Sylvester nodded slowly, his expression softening. “Martin. I won’t forget this… or you.”
As Sylvester walked away, Martin clutched the money tightly in his fist. He looked up at the sky once again, a small, grateful smile spreading across his face.
“I remember, Dad,” he whispered. “I always do.”
The next morning, Martin was jolted awake by his sister’s excited screams.
“Marty! Marty! Come quick!”
Martin rushed outside, his heart racing. His mother, still in her wheelchair, called out in confusion.
There, on their doorstep, sat a white bag bulging with cash and a note.
With trembling hands, Martin opened the note and read aloud:
“Thanks is a small word for what you did. I know you’d refuse this. But you deserve a happy childhood. Took me just an hour to find your address. The world’s a small place, isn’t it?! Hope we meet again someday, and I hope you’re just the pure heart of gold you are!
— Sylvester.”
Tears of joy filled Martin’s eyes as he handed the note to his mother. His sister jumped up and down, and their mother called out from inside, clearly shocked at the sight of so much money.
“Martin? What’s going on?” she asked, wheeling herself closer.
Martin’s heart raced. This money could change everything—his mother’s treatment, Josephine’s education, and their entire future. But was it right to accept it?
He walked to the small altar in their cottage and picked up two pieces of paper. On one, he wrote “REMEMBER,” and on the other, “FORGET.” He shuffled the papers in his hands, then lit a candle before the crucifix.
“Dad,” Martin whispered, closing his eyes, “help me make the right choice.”
After a deep breath, he picked up a piece of paper and slowly opened it. A smile spread across his face when he saw the word “REMEMBER.”
In that moment, Martin knew. He would accept the money—not for himself, but for his family. He would remember his father’s lessons, his own struggles, and the kindness that can exist even in the hardest of hearts.
“Josephine!” he called, his voice full of emotion. “Go tell Mom we’re going to the doctor today. And then… maybe we’ll stop for ice cream on the way home. Get her a new comfy mattress. And lots of groceries for the entire week!”
Josephine squealed with delight, and Martin clutched the note to his chest. He had remembered. And in doing so, he had found a way forward.
