The sun had only begun to rise over the broken rooftops of the city, washing the sky with pale orange light.
The narrow streets were quiet, still half-asleep, and only the cold wind moved freely—chasing dust and old memories. The city had seen better years; everyone said so. Some said it had once been full of music and warm lights. Now it felt heavy, like a place where hope had to push very hard just to stay alive.
But for Aero, today was different.
Today was the happiest day of his life.
He was only seven—small, thin, and always carrying more responsibility on his shoulders than any child should. And right now, on those same tired shoulders, he carried his little sister, Lina.
She was five, wrapped in a faded thin and tiny blanket. Her tiny hands were clutching Aero shoulders as she hummed softly into his ear.
Aero "You're smiling," Lina said. "Why are you smiling so much?"
Aero laughed—an honest, bursting laugh he could not hold inside.
"Because, Lina… I earned one whole miros today!" he said proudly, tapping the coin in his pocket. "One full miros! Do you know how big that is?"
Lina gasped as if the world had changed.
"One whole miros? That's… that's more than ten little coins!"
"It is," Aero said. "And with this, we can get bread. Real bread, Lina said . Not the stale pieces we find behind shops."
Lina leaned forward on his back, her cheek brushing his hair. "I'm so happy, Aero."
He squeezed her hand. "Me too. Today we eat properly."
He carried his shoe shiner's kit in his right arm—the wooden box knocked together with stool made up of leftover planks, a small brush, and a little tin of polish that granny tama once gave him. It was the only tool he had to earn anything at all.
And today, against all odds, someone had paid him.
Aero hurried toward the bakery with a lightness he rarely felt. The streets were still empty, except for the cold that always stayed. Lina rested her head against his shoulder, her breath warm against his ear.
They reached the bakery—a small shop squeezed between two leaning buildings, its door painted yellow long ago, now chipped and tired. From inside came the smell of warm bread, a smell so kind that Aero almost forgot the world outside.
He pushed the door open gently.
A small bell jingled.
Inside, the bakery was warm, with shelves lined with fresh loaves. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with flour on his apron and kindness in his tired eyes, looked up when the two children entered.
Aero stepped forward, clutching his shoeshine kit tighter.
"Sir," he said politely, "I'd like to buy one packet of bread."
The shopkeeper studied him—Aero's clothes were patched, his boots worn, and on his back, little Lina looked as fragile as a bird.
"One packet costs *0.80 miros*," the shopkeeper said gently.
"I have that much," Aero replied proudly. "I have… one miros."
He dug into his pocket, pulled out the coin, and placed it on the counter with a little thump—as if placing treasure.
The shopkeeper took it, gave Aero a packet of warm bread and *0.20 miros* back. But then he paused, staring at the siblings again. Something in their eyes—their exhaustion, their quiet determination—pulled at him.
"Wait," he said, turning behind the counter.
He returned with a small cookie, round and sprinkled with sugar.
"This is for you," he said, offering it to Aero.
Aero blinked in surprise. "But… sir… we didn't pay for that." and i don't have much money to offer you sir .
"You don't need to pay ." The shopkeeper smiled softly. "Take it. Times are hard, little one. And you… you're doing your best. That deserves something."
Lina peeked over Aero's shoulder. "A cookie?" she whispered, eyes wide.
The shopkeeper chuckled. "Yes, little one."
Aero hesitated, then took the cookie with both hands, as if it were made of gold.
"Thank you, sir," he said. "Really. Thank you for being kind."
The man nodded. "Kindness is the only thing keeping this city alive."
Aero swallowed and nodded too. Then he remembered something.
"Um… sir," he said, "Do you know where I can buy a blanket? A cheap one?"
The shopkeeper pointed outside.
"There is a small shop down this street," he explained. "Go right into the narrow road. It's old and not very noticeable, but the owner there sells simple blankets. You might find something."
Aero bowed slightly.
"Thank you—for the cookie and for telling us sir ."
"Stay safe," the man replied softly. "Both of you."
Aero left the bakery, still warm from the inside, his heart glowing as much as the warm bread in his arms.
The narrow road was darker than the main street. Tall buildings leaned toward each other as if whispering secrets. Few people walked here; the air felt older, untouched.
Aero adjusted Lina on his back and whispered, "Hold tight, Lina. We're almost there."
"I'm holding," she said, gripping his shirt. "I like the cookie smell in your hand."
Aero laughed softly. "We'll share it later."
They walked until Aero found the shop—a small wooden door with a faded cloth sign. The shop looked forgotten, like it belonged to another time.
Aero stepped forward.
"Hello?" he called. "Is someone here?"
There was no answer.
He tried again.
"Sir? Or anyone?"
Then, from under a table piled with old blankets and fabric, an old man slowly stood up. His hair was white and wild, his clothes dusty, and his eyes soft but sharp with age.
"Oh," he said, rubbing his back, "I didn't hear you come in. Children don't usually visit this place."
Aero bowed slightly. "Sir, we were told we could buy a blanket here."
"A blanket?" the old man repeated. "Yes, I have blankets. How much money do you have?"
Aero took a breath. "I have 0.20 miros."
The old man's eyebrows rose.
"Child… a blanket costs *0.30 miros*."
Aero's face fell. All his happiness wavered. He looked down at his feet, then at Lina resting quietly on his back.
"Oh…" Aero whispered. "I… I don't have enough."
The old man sighed. "I'm sorry, child."
Aero lifted his head bravely. "Is there… maybe a discount? Please? Just today? I earned this money myself, and my sister gets very cold at night."
The old man shook his head gently. "I cannot sell it for less. I barely make anything already."
Aero swallowed his disappointment.
"Okay…" he said softly. "I understand."
But the old man wasn't finished.
"I can make you another offer," he said. "0.20 miros… and something else worth the missing 10 centiros."
Aero straightened. "Something else?"
"Yes," the old man replied. "Something you own. Something that makes the price fair."
Aero bit his lip and slowly reached to the back of his shirt. With careful hands, he pulled out a small, torn blanket from his shirt that he is hiding like a treasure—thin as paper, frayed, and barely able to cover one child. It was the only blanket they had ever owned.
"This is… all I have," Aero said. "It's old. But it kept my sister warm when we had nothing else. Maybe… maybe you could fix it? I don't know. But this… this is what I can offer."
The old man took the blanket, holding it gently in his hands.
At first, he shook his head—the blanket was hardly worth anything. It was too small, too torn, too thin. He opened his mouth to refuse.
But then he saw Lina.
Her sleepy eyes. Her small fingers clutching Aero's shirt. Her cheek resting trustingly against her brother's shoulder.
Such tiny children.
So alone.
So determined to survive.
The old man's breath caught in his throat.
He looked again at Aero—the tired boy with brave eyes.
And his heart melted.
"You know what?" the old man said softly. "I think this blanket is worth far more than you believe."
Aero blinked. "It… it is?"
"Yes," the old man nodded. "It is old, yes. But the way you carried it… the way you protected your sister with it… makes it precious."
He walked to a shelf and pulled down a thick winter blanket—warm, soft, large enough for two children.
He placed it in Aero's arms.
"Take this," the old man said. "For *0.20 miros*… and your old blanket."
Aero stared at him, stunned.
"Sir… this blanket is too good," he whispered. "You'll lose money."
The old man smiled, eyes twinkling with kindness. "Some things are not about money, child."
Aero's voice trembled. "But… why? Why are you being so kind?"
The old man looked at him gently.
"Because in times like these," he said, "children should not have to struggle like grown men. You… you remind me of someone I once knew. Someone brave. You take care of your sister with more love than many adults in this world."
Lina lifted her head sleepily. "Aero… is that our new blanket?"
Aero nodded, unable to speak.
The old man bent down to her level. "Yes, little one. A warm blanket for cold nights."
Lina smiled softly. "Thank you… grandpa."
The old man froze.
Then his eyes softened—a deep, emotional softness—and he placed a gentle hand on her hair.
"You are welcome, child."
Aero bowed deeply, clutching the new blanket.
"Thank you," he said. "We will never forget this."
"You don't owe me anything," the old man replied. "Just stay warm. Stay alive. And keep taking care of each other."
Aero nodded once… firmly.
Then he turned, lifted Lina securely on his back again, and stepped out of the shop with the bread, the cookie, and the warm winter blanket.
For the first time in a very long time…
Their world felt a little kinder.