Money was painfully tight. The rent was late again, the fridge nearly empty, and Stan’s sneakers had gotten so small his toes were pressing against the fabric. One foggy Saturday morning, clutching my last $5, I wandered through the local flea market praying for a small miracle.
That’s when I saw them — a tiny pair of brown leather baby shoes. The stitching was clean, the soles barely worn. They looked perfect.
“Six dollars,” she replied.
My heart sank. “I only have five.”
She studied me for a long moment, then smiled softly. “For you — five’s fine. No child should have cold feet.”
That small kindness nearly undid me. I thanked her through tears, clutching the shoes like treasure. Maybe the day wasn’t such a loss after all.
Later that afternoon, I helped Stan pull them on. He giggled as I tugged them over his socks. They fit perfectly. But then — a faint crackling sound came from inside one of the shoes.
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