'Isn't he cold?'
That was the only thought running through the mind of the shivering ten-year-old boy.
Vio trembled in the freezing street, his body frail, bones aching from hunger and frost. But none of that could prepare his young mind for the sight before him—an old man, wearing tattered clothes, sitting comfortably on the snow, smiling peacefully as if the cold didn't exist.
Vio wanted to ask… but he didn't have the strength, and deep down, he knew it was a useless question. So instead, he curled up once more, burying his head between his knees and the cold stone wall.
"Good," the old man said, standing up from the snow with ease. "Don't waste your energy on nonsense."
He stretched slightly, then turned.
"If you want to get what you want," he said with a grin, "follow me."
Then he walked off, not looking back.
Vio didn't move at first. He had no energy to waste—he hadn't eaten in a week. But those three words… "what you want" echoed in his ears like a lifeline.
Before he knew it, Vio's body moved, stumbling forward with slow, shaky steps, following the old man into the alley's darkness.
'What I want… what do I even want?'
His mind struggled to latch onto a single thought. No home. No safety. No dreams. His world was narrowed down to instincts.
'Food… warmth…'
That was all that mattered.
He tripped several times as he walked, barely catching himself, but he kept going. The old man never slowed down, never looked back.
And in that silence, Vio understood: If I can't keep up, I'm not worthy of food. Or warmth. Or anything.
They walked through alleyways that Vio thought he knew, but none of it seemed familiar anymore. When the old man finally stopped, Vio bumped into him, falling to the ground again. But he didn't cry out. He didn't even groan. He had no energy to waste on pain.
The old man turned, still smiling.
Then he pointed ahead.
At a shop.
Vio blinked in disbelief.
How had he never seen this place before? He knew every food store in these alleys—mainly because he dug through all their dumpsters. But this one? This one glowed.
A small bakery. Warm yellow lights spilled out through its glass front. Inside, fresh bread lined the shelves.
'Bread… He owns a bakery? Can I have fresh bread? How does it even taste again?'
He had eaten stale crusts out of trash cans for so long that he had forgotten what real food even felt like.
"You see the store," the old man said. "Go ahead, take what you want."
A spark of life lit Vio's face. He stepped forward, hunger leading the way.
But then—stopped.
"Is… is it yours?"
"No."
"Are they giving it for free?"
"Nothing's free, boy."
"I don't have any money."
"Neither do I."
With each answer, Vio's fragile hope cracked and crumbled. Lips trembled, but he didn't scream—no strength left to waste on anger.
He turned away, ready to find another corner to die in.
"You can go in and take what you want," the old man said, voice calm.
Vio froze.
"…Are you telling me to steal?"
"Your empty stomach hasn't emptied your brain. That's good."
"No," Vio said quietly, firmly.
"Why not?" the old man asked, tilting his head with innocent curiosity.
"…It's wrong."
"Wrong to whom?"
That question struck him.
He never thought of that.
'Wrong to whom? To the bakery? To the law? To himself?'
His brows tightened in confusion.
"Who said it's wrong?" the old man pressed, his tone almost amused.
"…My father."
"What did he say?"
"…Words."
Vio's voice drifted, like he was falling into a trance.
"Say the words."
Like a recorded voice, Vio repeated:
"Don't steal. Nothing is more valuable than something earned through your effort."
"Such pretty words," the old man chuckled, but his tone was mocking.
Vio didn't like it.
"…Are you mocking my father?"
"Where is he now?" the old man asked, ignoring the question.
"…Who?"
"Your father."
"…He's dead."
"Then what does it matter?"
The meaning hit Vio like a slap.
'He's gone... but his words are still with me.'
Vio clenched his fists. He didn't care how cold it was. If the old man insulted his father again, he was ready to fight, even with body on the verge of collapse.
But the old man didn't say anything more.
Instead, he reached out and grabbed Vio by the neck.
Fear flooded Vio's heart, but before he could scream, he realized… he wasn't choking.
The grip wasn't meant to harm.
Not yet.
"Your father's not here," the old man said softly. "Only his words are. But tell me—what are they worth?"
He raised something shiny.
A small stone.
"This rock," the old man said, "has more value than your father's words."
Vio frowned but said nothing.
"Don't believe me?" The old man placed the stone in Vio's trembling hand. "Let's test it, then."
Suddenly, the pressure on Vio's neck increased.
'What's happening!?'
"Simple, boy," the old man whispered, tightening his grip. "Say something—anything—that will make me let go."
Panic filled Vio's eyes. His body screamed, his breath shortened.
"Use your mind… Violence is not the answer…" Vio choked the words out.
The old man laughed.
"Where is your precious 'mind' now? You can't even break the grip of an old man."
"Be noble…" Vio gasped.
"Let that nobility feed your belly, then. Or push me off."
"Don't lie…" Vio gasped, his mind desperately searching for anything-any memory, any principle that could save him. It felt like his soul was slipping away.
"What does lying have to do with this, boy?" the old man said, tightening his grip on Vio's throat. "Fine. Be honest, then. Why is my hand still wrapped around your neck?"
Vio's thoughts froze. His father's teachings, once flowing like an endless river, now stopped. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
Then, instinct kicked in.
His trembling hand, the one still holding the stone the old man had given him, moved without thought. With what little strength he had, he raised it—and struck.
He hit the old man's wrist.
"Good," the old man murmured.
Vio struck again, this time harder. A thin stream of air returned to his lungs.
"Keep going."
He obeyed.
Over and over, Vio slammed the stone against the man's wrist. With each blow, the old man's grip weakened until finally, it released entirely.
Vio collapsed to the ground, gasping for air.
"Cough. Gasp. Cough."
"Tell me, boy," the old man said with that same smile, "did your father's words bring you any relief just now?"
Vio clenched his jaw, biting his lip. He didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to answer.
"But that stone…" the old man continued, "You barely had it for a minute. Yet thanks to it, you're breathing now. Imagine the comfort you'd feel if you let go of even more of your father's words."
"Shut up!" Vio screamed, standing up with rage burning in his eyes—but the old man was gone.
'What? Where did he go?'
Vio looked around, heart pounding. There was no trace of him. Yet his voice still echoed in Vio's mind.
Like a haunting whisper.
Then Vio looked back at the shop.
The warm yellow-orange light shining through the windows called to him. The way it glowed made it look like the inside was warm. As if it was beckoning him.
A sudden gust of winter wind slapped him in the face.
Without even realizing it, his body moved found himself standing in front of the bakery's door. He pushed it open, triggering a gentle bell chime.
"Coming!" called a voice from the back.
'It's warm…'
Yes, it was a bakery. And the warmth that hit his face felt unreal. His eyes sparkled as they landed on the shelves, lined with fresh bread, golden and steaming.
The shopkeeper emerged. Vio flinched.
He had been chased out of so many stores, slapped, kicked, even spat on. His torn clothes were enough to let anyone know he had no money.
But instead of anger or disgust, the shopkeeper smiled.
"What can I get you, young man?"
"J-Just… one piece," Vio muttered, barely audible.
"One piece of bread, coming up."
It was too easy. Too simple. Vio's mind screamed at him to be suspicious. But hunger silenced everything else.
The man handed him the bread. Vio could feel its warmth seeping into his palms, thawing the frost in his fingers. That warmth—it gave him courage. Courage to do something he never imagined he'd do.
He turned and ran.
He bolted out of the shop.
Ran down the street, faster than he thought his body could handle. When he finally ran out of breath, he collapsed against a wall and took a huge bite.
One bite became two, then three.
With each bite, it felt like his father's sacred teachings were crumbling inside him, falling like shattered glass. But he couldn't stop. He devoured the bread like a madman, tears pouring down his face.
And just as he finished the last piece… he looked up.
The shopkeeper was standing there.
Before Vio could say a word, the man punched him. Then kicked him. Then grabbed and dragged him straight to the police station.
Thrown into a cell, Vio didn't feel the pain in his body.
What hurt more was the silence.
The absence of his father's words.
But then… a warmth in his belly comforted him.
'At least I ate.'
The jail cell was packed—23 people, crammed into a space not made for half that number. The air stank. Drunks cursed. Sleep was rare. But the heat from their bodies kept the cold away.
And for Vio, that was enough.
He stayed there for a full week. And honestly? It was the best week of his life.
A roof over his head. A guard who tossed food into the cell three times a day. That alone was a cultural shock to Vio.
What made him happiest? He didn't have the money to pay bail, and he didn't want to have it. Each time someone left the cell, Vio gave them a silent look.
'You fool. You're leaving paradise.'
But even warmth has its limits.
After a week, they threw him out. Again.
'I don't want to go…'
The moment he stepped outside, winter winds attacked his skin like knives. He shivered violently.
'Not again…'
"Hey, boy," a voice called from the distance.
Vio's eyes widened.
It was the old man. He was standing at the corner, waving at him.
Vio's heart leapt with something almost like… joy. He ran toward him, stumbling on his own feet.
"H-How are you…?" Vio asked awkwardly, unsure how to greet him.
"Old man's fine. Just call me 'old man,'" he replied as he turned to walk away.
Vio watched his back disappear into the streets. The same back he had followed before.
And the memory returned—clear as day.
'If you want to get what you want, follow me.'
And truly… what had Vio wanted?
Food? He found it.
Warmth? He felt it.
A place to belong? Maybe not yet—but something had changed.
With that thought in mind, Vio began walking.
Following again.
"Damn it… Why am I remembering all of this?"