The glass door swayed gently as Alaric pushed it open, letting the spicy aroma of Samyang broth waft through and welcome them into the restaurant. The little boy he held by the hand glanced to the right and left, hesitant, as if unfamiliar with a place like this.

Alaric leaned down and offered him a reassuring look. The boy gave a small nod, as if to say, "It's okay, let's go." Slowly, he followed, his steps small and cautious, but Alaric's steady grip gave him courage.

As they stepped fully inside, the clattering of pots from the chefs' stoves rang out, and the spicy scent of the seasonings grew stronger, enough to make anyone's stomach rumble.

Alaric led the boy toward an empty table in the corner. He let the child sit down first before taking his own seat, setting down a bag of bread beside his chair without much attention to it.

Not long after, a server approached them with a polite smile. Alaric ordered in a calm tone, "Two bowls of Samyang. Add any toppings that might be suitable for a child." He glanced briefly at the boy, making sure. The boy only looked down, shy and quiet.

"Of course, sir. Please wait a moment." The server walked away, leaving them at the table.

Alaric leaned back in his seat and watched the boy's face, which still showed traces of unease and awkwardness. He didn't speak right away, giving the child time to adjust to the atmosphere. After a few moments, he began to speak, his voice low enough that only their table could hear.

"Where do you live?" he asked, his eyes focused on the boy.

The boy shifted slightly in his seat before answering quietly, "At the end of the little alley, sir."

Alaric let the answer settle in his mind. Then he leaned forward a bit, his eyes trying to meet the boy's, though the child occasionally looked away. "Who do you live with?" he asked again, his voice just as gentle, free of pressure.

This time, the boy lifted his head briefly, then looked down again. "With my father," he said softly. "But… he's sick, so he can't work."

Alaric's expression softened, a flicker of concern appearing in his eyes. He didn't respond right away, letting the boy's words rest between them. Only then did he ask, more carefully now, as though afraid to hurt him, "So… you're the one working?"

The boy bit his lower lip before giving a small nod. He didn't add anything, but that was enough to say everything.

Alaric could almost see the weight the boy was carrying on his small shoulders. In the silence between them, the server returned, placing two steaming bowls of Samyang on the table. The rich, spicy aroma filled the little space around them.

Still, Alaric didn't move to touch his chopsticks or spoon. His eyes remained on the boy, aware that behind the quiet face was a story much heavier than a bowl of noodles.

Then the silence broke as the boy spoke again, his lips moving hesitantly. "My father's been sick for a long time," he said, gripping the spoon he hadn't yet used. His eyes blinked rapidly, as if holding something back. "At first, he just limped a little, but now… he can't stand at all."

Alaric felt the tightness in his chest, the kind of pain that didn't belong to him but still made its way in. He stayed silent, giving space for the boy to continue if he wanted to.

"And… what kind of work do you do now?" Alaric asked softly.

The boy shifted the untouched bowl of noodles in front of him. "I usually deliver items from the store to people's houses. The shop owner is kind. He trusts me." His small mouth formed words that were simple but honest.

Alaric respected that. "You work hard… for someone your age," he murmured. Then he looked at the boy again and asked, "Do the doctors think your father can recover?"

The question made the boy lower his head even more, his fingers tightening around the handle of the spoon. "Yes… the doctor said he can, but he needs surgery." His voice trembled, but he forced a small smile. "It costs a lot. That's why I work, and every time I earn something, I save a little of it."

Alaric could clearly see the mix of determination and sorrow on the boy's face. He was holding back tears with all his might, trying to be strong, even when his heart had been tested too often.

"Then… why did you say you were hungry earlier?" Alaric asked gently.

The boy lifted his eyes briefly, then met his gaze with innocent honesty. "Today I didn't get any money. The shop owner wasn't there… so I couldn't bring anything home."

Alaric was silent for a long moment. Sitting across from him was a child who should be playing or studying, but instead was thinking about surgery costs and going hungry because of work.

He realized the mood at the table had grown heavier. The boy's story was deeply painful, but he didn't want to let the child sink further into that sadness. So, with a soft shift in tone, Alaric gently steered the conversation away.

"Alright," he said, glancing at the bowl in front of the boy. "Let's eat first. If we wait too long, this Samyang won't taste as good. After we're done, we'll get some to take home for your father."

The boy gave a small nod. He looked at the steaming noodles, then back at Alaric and spoke in a quiet voice, "I… I don't want to be pitied, sir."

Those words hit Alaric harder than he expected. He closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath. He knew that if he allowed the boy to sit in that feeling of hesitation and pride, the food would stay untouched. So he decided to act.

"That's enough," he said, as if giving a final decision.

"It's not right to let food sit around too long. Finish it first. You can talk again after that."

The boy went quiet, then slowly began to eat the hot noodles. His face turned red—whether from the spicy broth or from holding back emotion. But at least, he was eating.

Several minutes passed. Alaric finished his bowl first, his stomach full. He took a sip of water, leaned back in his seat for a moment, then stood up.

"Thank you, sir…" the boy whispered, placing down his chopsticks. He stood too, standing close beside Alaric like someone who knew he was just a guest.

Alaric glanced at him and shook his head slightly. He felt the ache again, but turned it into action. Without saying much, he called the server again and ordered another portion of noodles. "To go," he said. The boy looked up at him, eyes wide, almost in disbelief.

But Alaric wasn't done. As they stepped out of the restaurant, he handed the bag of bread he had brought with him to the boy. Almost all the bread he had bought earlier—he gave it away. Only a few pieces remained in the bag, his favorite taro flavor.

The boy held the bundle with both hands, as if he wanted to say something he didn't know how to put into words.

Alaric reached into his pocket and pulled out a check. One thousand dollars. He gently pressed it into the boy's hand, making sure it wouldn't slip away.

"This," he said in a calm, steady voice. "If the money runs out, come to Rehl Hospital. Just ask for me. That hospital belongs to a friend of mine. I'll take care of everything. My name's Alaric."

The boy froze, staring at the check in his hand, his eyes starting to glisten.

Alaric reached out and gently patted the boy's head, offering comfort and warmth. "What's your name?"

"E… Eston," the boy replied.

"Alright, Eston. I'll see you again."

He walked away, his figure upright and calm, while the boy remained standing, arms full of noodles, bread, and a check that barely fit in his small hand. Just before he disappeared from view, Alaric turned around once more. He raised his hand in a small wave. Eston looked at him, then shyly lifted his own hand and waved back.

On the road, Alaric muttered; "How sad the fate of a poor child like Eston is. I am very concerned. Even for food, they have to find it themselves, fighting with adults who are both already facing the harshness of the world."

Alaric couldn't imagine the hardships faced by such underprivileged children. Each time he tried to picture Eston's daily life. Waking up in a cramped space, carrying the weight of survival on his small shoulders, delivering goods instead of playing in parks like other children his age... his chest tightened with a guilt he couldn't quite name.

That's why he had deliberately avoided visiting or seeing Eston's parents. Not because he didn't care, or because time didn't allow, but because deep down, he was afraid. Afraid of looking directly into the eyes of the man who could no longer walk, who had no way to provide for his son. Afraid that if he stepped into their home and saw their reality up close. The peeling walls, the empty shelves, the silence of helplessnes. It would break something inside him.

He knew he couldn't fix everything, and that realization hurt more than anything. So instead, he helped from the edges, quietly, giving what he could without fully crossing the line into their world. It wasn't cowardice, he told himself, it was self-preservation.

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