The underground passage echoed with hurried footsteps. Amidst the hustle, 14-year-old Martin sat quietly by the wall, his shoe-shining kit spread before him. His eyes darted hopefully at each passing shoe.

“Just a handful,” he whispered. “Just a handful today, please.”

As the day wore on, Martin’s stomach growled. The meager breakfast of bread felt distant. He took a small sip from his water bottle to quell the hunger pangs.

“You can do this, Martin,” he told himself. “For Mom and Josephine.”

Hours passed without a customer. Finally, he allowed himself a moment of respite, pulling out a small orange—his lunch for the day.

Just as he began to peel it, a pair of dirty brown leather shoes landed in front of him.

“Hurry up, kid. Clean it. I’m in a rush,” a gruff voice barked.

Martin looked up, excitement mixed with trepidation. This could be his chance for a tip.

“Right away, sir!” he said, setting aside his orange.

As he worked, the man’s impatience grew. “What’s taking so long?”

Martin’s hands trembled, but he focused. “Almost done, sir.”

The man scoffed. “At your age, I was already making more than my father. I wasn’t shining shoes like some beggar.”

Those words stung. It had been three years since a drunk driver had taken his father’s life. Now, at just eleven, he had to provide for his paralyzed mother and little sister.

“You call this shining?” the man sneered. “My dog could do a better job!”

Martin’s cheeks burned. “I’m sorry, sir. I can try again—”

“Forget it,” he cut in, pulling out his phone. “I’ll be late, thanks to this incompetent brat.”

As Sylvester ranted, Martin’s mind drifted to happier times with his father, who had taught him the art of shoe shining.

“Hey! Are you listening?” Sylvester shouted. “What’s your father doing, sending you out here? Too lazy to work himself, huh?”

Martin’s throat tightened. “My father… passed away, sir.”

Sylvester narrowed his eyes. “So your mother’s probably moved on, right? Don’t you people have anything better to do?”

Martin clenched his fists but forced a smile. “That’s $7, sir.”

“SEVEN DOLLARS?” Sylvester exploded. “I don’t think so.”

Before Martin could react, Sylvester grabbed his shoes and stormed off.

“Wait!” Martin called, but Sylvester sped away, leaving him heartbroken.

The next morning, Martin returned to his spot. Suddenly, a commotion caught his attention.

“Help! Someone help!” a woman yelled.

A crowd had gathered around a fancy car—Sylvester was inside, choking.

Without hesitation, Martin smashed the window and pulled him out.

“You… saved me,” Sylvester wheezed.

“Are you okay, sir?” Martin asked.

“I can’t believe it. After how I treated you… Why did you help me?”

“It was the right thing to do.”

Tears filled Sylvester’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

Martin thought for a moment. “Just the $7 from yesterday.”

Reluctantly, Sylvester handed over the money.

The next morning, Martin found a bulging bag on his doorstep with a note from Sylvester, thanking him for saving his life and offering him money for a better future.

Martin hesitated but remembered his father’s lessons. He accepted it, not for himself, but for his family.

“Josephine!” he called. “Go tell Mom we’re going to the doctor today. And then ice cream!”

As Josephine squealed with delight, Martin smiled, knowing he had found a way forward.