It was Saturday.
No school.
No classmates.
Just peace.
The morning sun shone through the window of Haru's apartment. The sound of birds outside felt soft and warm.
Haru stretched and stood up slowly. He made a simple breakfast—just eggs and toast with black coffee.
He looked around his quiet apartment. Books were neatly placed on the shelf. His bed was made. No messages from his parents today.
After finishing breakfast, he put on his jacket and left the apartment.
He needed to buy food, maybe a new book too.
The streets were calm. People walked with shopping bags, talking and laughing.
Haru entered a small bookstore. He liked this place—quiet, with the smell of old pages.
He picked up a book in German and smiled a little.
Then he bought some groceries from a small market—rice, canned goods, instant noodles. Nothing fancy.
But as he walked home…
He saw a small boy standing alone on the corner of a sidewalk. The boy looked worried. His eyes were wide, and he was saying something—over and over.
People passed by but didn't stop. They didn't understand.
Haru walked closer.
The boy was speaking in Russian.
> "Где моя мама?..."
("Where is my mom?...")
The boy's voice cracked. His small shoulders trembled, and tears began to fall down his cheeks.
Haru's eyes softened. He slowly crouched down to the boy's level and said, gently:
> "Не волнуйся. Всё будет хорошо."
("Don't worry. Everything will be okay.")
The boy sniffled, looking at Haru through watery eyes. Haru reached into his pocket and handed the boy a clean tissue.
Then he softly patted the boy's head and added with a small smile,
> "Ты храбрый мальчик."
("You're a brave boy.")
The boy stopped crying. His breathing steadied. A flicker of hope appeared in his eyes.
Haru took out his phone and carefully asked the boy questions. He spoke Russian slowly, gently.
Soon, with the help of a kind worker nearby, they found the boy's mother.
She ran toward them with tears in her eyes and hugged her son tightly.
> "Спасибо тебе огромное," the mother said to Haru, her voice full of emotion.
("Thank you so much.")
Haru gave a small bow and replied quietly in Russian,
> "Не за что, мадам."
("No problem, ma'am.")
She smiled, wiping her eyes.
> "Вау… ты свободно говоришь по-русски?"
("Wow… you're fluent in Russian?")
Haru looked a little shy. He scratched the back of his neck and replied softly,
> "Спасибо за комплимент…"
("Thank you for the compliment…")
He bowed again.
The little boy waved at him. Haru smiled just a little and waved back.
Then he walked away… quietly… like he always did.
The sky was turning orange.
Haru sat by the window of his apartment, sipping warm tea. The new book lay open in his lap, but his eyes weren't reading.
He was thinking about the boy. The mother. The warm thanks.
Then a question came to his mind:
> "Why are there so many foreigners these days?"
It wasn't a bad thought—just curiosity.
He had lived in Japan all his life. But lately, he'd seen more people speaking different languages.
German. Russian. English. Even some French.
Maybe the city was changing. Maybe the world was just more connected now.
He wasn't sure.
But he felt something strange inside…
Something like a soft pull.
Like his small world was slowly getting bigger.
And somehow… he didn't mind.
> "Sometimes, kindness doesn't shout.
It speaks in quiet moments, soft words, and eyes that understand."
— Kael Aozora