Baby Shoes, Never Sold

Sun emerged above the grey clouds, offering some consolation before the awaited storm. Below the clouds lay a town of about five thousand inhabitants. Some hungry, some sick, yet all desperate, and many hopeful, for now.

An unusual excitement was visible in the streets. Unusual to a newbie, that is. To commuters it was a mere background to their monotone routes. Something else was certainly unusual, though. A child was standing in front of the shoemaker’s shop, feeling both excited and anxious, and tormented as the two clashed yet refused harmony.

The boy had lived for about eight years, most of it barefooted. How many more years were to come, he did not know. That he would spend them on a comfortable and shiny pair of shoes, it was a certainty.

A few hours ago, he was walking by the canal when a torn, muddy note probably lost by some beggar caught his attention. Boy had hesitated little before checking his surroundings, and only a bit more afterwards, and that, too, for he had never done such a thing.

He did not deserve it less than anyone else, after all.

Entering the shop proved mentally more challenging. Shops were his constant source of amusement. Entering them was not a big deal when all he received was a kick in the ass and all he hoped for was a few seconds more in the heated room. But going in there with money, buying a pair of shoes, that is, putting himself above the sails person, was outside of his comfort zone: more so than the price of the shoes was out of his budget.

P.S: Just to clarify, title is a shitty Hemingway reference.

*draft*
*incomplete*