Last night, I was on my way home. Late.
Music played in my ear, an old song that always makes me feel a little melancholic.
I was looking ahead, watching the sidewalk, when I noticed something moving on it.
I stepped closer.
A person. Lying down. Or maybe more like crawling. He dragged himself forward as if he were participating in some strange, ruined race.
He pushed himself with his legs, his arms stiff, as if some invisible rope was pulling them taut.
My first thought: drunk.
My second thought: filthy.
It had rained yesterday, and the sidewalk was covered in muddy puddles.
My third thought: But what if he’s not drunk…?
Others hurried past me. No one stopped. They had to get home, kids, dinner, a TV show.
They avoided the crawler from a distance, some even turned away in disgust.
I also wanted to go home. But something wouldn’t let me.
I went over to him, crouched down, and cautiously, with a slightly trembling voice, I asked:
“Are you okay?”
The boy looked up at me. His eyes were clear. He blinked confusedly.
“Help me stand up,” he said, struggling to articulate his words.
That’s when I noticed that his hands were bent painfully, his legs awkwardly splayed out on the ground. I immediately understood: cerebral palsy.
I stretched out my hand. He grabbed it tightly with his own dirty, muddy hand. The smell… soup. A simple, homey soup scent surrounded him.
I helped him up.
“What’s your name?” I asked, as my mind raced with what to do next.
“Olivér.”
“Olivér, how did you end up here?”
“I was… going to buy bread… My stepmother’s sick…” he panted.
“Did you fall?”
“Yes… A cyclist… bumped me… I can’t get up…” he added quickly, as best as he could.
Now he was standing, but still gripping my hand tightly.
“Do you live far?”
“No… just there,” he pointed toward the nearby apartment building. “Walk with me… because I’ll fall again…”
I nodded.
“Let’s go,” I said, though my inner voice whispered: “Don’t be naïve!” But somehow, I didn’t feel danger from him. Only the smell of soup.
We slowly made our way toward the building. People on the street stared at us: me, in a suit, coming from a presentation, and him, muddy, dragging his feet, shuffling.
“Who do you live with, Olivér?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“With my stepmother. She’s sick. In bed…”
I nodded.
“And do you usually go shopping by yourself?”
“No… but there was no one else today…”
When we reached the building, the boy showed me which stairwell to go into. There, he seemed more confident, gripping the railing, pulling himself up the first floor.
Somehow, he fished the keys from his pocket and handed them to me. I opened the door to apartment 14. We stepped into the entryway. The smell of soup hit me stronger.
From inside the apartment, a faint voice called out:
“Olivér, is that you? Where have you been? You’ve been gone for two hours! Did you buy the bread?”
I placed the keys on the shoe rack and then stepped out of the apartment. I couldn’t stay there. Somehow, it was all too much at once.
As I stepped out of the building, I stopped in front of the door. I could still smell the soup in my nose, as if it had stuck to me.
The rain had started to drizzle again. Cold drops splashed onto my collar. I looked at the gray sidewalk, the wet asphalt. The exact strip where Olivér had crawled for two hours.
Two hours.
For a healthy person, maybe ten minutes. But for him? Two hours of struggle, on his knees, elbows, through mud, while people hurriedly turned their heads.
A question kept spinning in my mind: Why didn’t anyone stop? Why didn’t I stop immediately?
I was confused. A feeling overtook me, one I hadn’t felt in a long time: shame.
I walked to the intercom. I pressed the button for apartment 14. Nothing.
I tried again. Silence.
I waited a few minutes, then waited for someone to leave the building.
As soon as the door opened, I slipped in and went back up to the first floor. I stopped in front of apartment 14.
It was quiet inside. Maybe Olivér was taking a shower. Maybe his stepmother was sleeping.
For a moment, I hesitated, then turned around and hurried back down the stairs. I walked to the nearest little shop, still open.
What should I get? I thought, as I wandered the aisles. Bread, of course. But also something else. A quick meal. Something simple.
A fresh loaf of bread, a pack of pasta, a bit of ground meat, a jar of jam, some cookies, a box of tea.
I paid quickly, then walked back to the building.
This time, an elderly man was holding the gate open from the inside, walking his dog. I smiled and entered.
I hung the plastic bag on the doorknob of apartment 14. I also put in a note:
“For Olivér and his mom. Enjoy your meal. Take care!”
Then silently, almost sneakily, I walked back out onto the street.
The rain was still drizzling. The streetlights glistened on the wet sidewalk. The wind whispered softly between the trees.
And I just stood there, with the empty plastic bag in my hand, and somehow, I felt like something had been put right inside me.
Not much. But a little.
The next morning, I woke up early.
The previous evening hadn’t let me rest. As I stirred my coffee, I wondered if Olivér had gotten up. Had he eaten the bread? The soup? Had he managed to wash himself?
I didn’t have any business in that direction, but I felt a strong urge. I headed to apartment 14.
In front of the building, on the curb, sat a boy. Dirty pants, stretched-out sweater, muddy shoes.
He had his legs pulled up underneath him, clutching a plastic bag in his hands – inside was a jar of jam.
It was Olivér.
When he saw me, he gave a faint smile.
“Hi…” he greeted timidly.
“Hi, Olivér! How are you?”
He shrugged.
“Good… Thanks for the food.”
I sat down next to him on the cold curb.
“Did you get it?” I asked, though it was obvious.
“Yes. Mom… was happy. She cried a little.”
An elderly woman appeared at the door. She was thin, with a hollow face, holding a walker.
Olivér turned to her.
“I’ll be right there, Grandma!”
He turned back to me.
“This is my stepmother, Aunt Edit. She used to be a teacher.”
I nodded.
“Could you help us?” he asked suddenly, his eyes wide open.
“With what?” I asked carefully.
“Sometimes going to the store. If you have time…”
My throat tightened.
Olivér didn’t ask for much. Just sometimes… a loaf of bread… a little time.
“Of course, Olivér. I’d love to.”
He smiled. So clearly, so honestly, like a child.
He got up from the curb, adjusted the bag.
“It’s Sunday today. We’re making chicken soup,” he said enthusiastically. “You know how we do it?”
“No. How?” I asked.
“We just put everything in that we have. Everything we can get,” he said, laughing, and his eyes sparkled.
Everything we can get.
That sentence stayed in my mind all day.
A few weeks later
It became a habit for me to stop by Olivér’s twice a week.
I brought bread, fruit, sometimes little things.
One time, Aunt Edit, his stepmother, asked me:
“Will you come, dear? Help bring up the package from the basement?”
I went down. In the basement, I found an old, rusty cupboard.
Inside, some old photos. Of Olivér as a little boy, of Aunt Edit when she was a teacher, and a man – probably Olivér’s father.
Aunt Edit spoke behind me:
“His father never accepted that he was sick… He left. I stayed with him. We live… like this, as we can.”
I tightened the cupboard door.
There was nothing to say.
I just felt it.
That evening, when I got home, I took off my coat and stared out the window at the street.
It was drizzling rain.
People were hurrying, as always. Someone fell – maybe right now, maybe right there – and no one noticed.
Because we hurry. Because we have no time. Because we just rush.
But somewhere, in a small apartment, a fragile boy and an elderly woman were making soup. They put in everything they had.
And somehow, strangely, I felt:
This is how it’s supposed to be.
Hang in there, Olivér. And if you fall – there will always be someone to lift you up.
