It was an ordinary weekday evening — the subway was humming. I was sitting by the window.

At the next stop, the doors opened, and a boy of about ten years old stepped into the car. He looked like he had run away from class — messy hair, wrinkled shorts, holding one worn-out sneaker in his hand. But the main thing — he was barefoot. On one foot, he wore a thin striped sock. He sat down in an empty seat between two passengers and tried not to attract attention.

People around him still noticed. Someone abruptly turned to their phone, someone else gave a judging glance and immediately pretended to be lost in thought. But the man sitting to the boy’s right looked different.

He wore work clothes — paint-stained jeans, a thick jacket, heavy boots. His gaze kept shifting to the boy’s bare feet, then to his bag by his feet. He was thinking about something.

Two stops passed. Then another one. At the fourth stop, he suddenly leaned forward, cleared his throat — quietly but loud enough for everyone to pay attention — and said something that shocked everyone. 

— Listen. I just bought sneakers for my son. But he’ll probably manage. He still has a pair, and they’re still good. You seem to need them more.

He took a box out of his bag. Opened the lid. Inside were fresh blue sneakers with tags.

The boy looked like he didn’t understand. First at the shoes. Then at the man. Then back at the shoes. He carefully tried them on… And they fit perfectly.

He lifted his head, a shy smile appeared on his lips. He said almost quietly:

— Thank you.

The man shrugged as if it was no big deal:

— Just pay it forward. When you can.

The boy got off at the next station. No longer slouched, wearing new sneakers — and carrying something else, invisible but warmer than any shoe: faith in people.