The sun had begun its slow descent across the sky, casting long shadows across the narrow streets of Musutafu's 6th district. The air still carried the warmth of midday, but it was tempered now by a breeze that swept in from the mountains to the west. It rustled through the trees, danced across parked cars, and tugged gently at the hem of skirts and the plastic awnings of storefronts.
It was the kind of afternoon that painted the city in a false sense of calm—the golden hour where everything looked softer, kinder, safer. Children tugged at their mothers' sleeves, eager for snacks. High school students kicked soccer balls in the park, laughter echoing through the alleys. Vendors packed up their stalls with slow, practiced movements, counting coins and exchanging casual gossip.
Among the many souls enjoying the lazy transition from day to evening was a man named Tatsuo Iwaki, age forty-six, and his daughter, Minako, who had recently turned ten.
Tatsuo wore a loose, button-down shirt and slacks, the faint creases from his desk job still present on his sleeves. His hair was beginning to gray at the temples, but his eyes held the gentle patience of a man who found joy in life's simplest pleasures. In one hand he carried a sturdy reusable grocery bag packed with vegetables, tofu, and a few treats. With the other, he held Minako's tiny hand.
Minako was radiant, like a ray of sunlight bottled into a child's frame. Her ponytails swung cheerfully with each step, and her red sneakers thudded lightly on the pavement as she half-walked, half-skipped beside him.
"Papa~ Did you see the strawberries? They looked so good today!"
Tatsuo chuckled. "You already have melon pan in the bag, and chocolate Pocky. If I let you choose one more sweet, dinner's going to get lonely on your plate."
"But strawberries are fruit, not sweets!" Minako argued, grinning up at him.
"Nice try."
Their laughter drifted through the alley they entered—a narrow, quieter path cutting behind a row of shops. Tatsuo had taken this route countless times. It was safe, if a bit grimy. Mostly used by locals heading home with groceries or walking their dogs.
As they walked, Tatsuo noticed Minako slowing down. She was staring at something behind a rusted dumpster.
"Papa… look."
He turned to follow her gaze.
Near the side wall, just beyond the bins, crouched a boy.
Thin. Dirty. Wearing a torn hoodie far too large for his frame, sleeves dragging across the gravel. He was reaching into an overturned trash bag, sifting through spoiled bread, empty wrappers, and soggy fruit skins with mechanical detachment. His face was obscured beneath his hood, but what little Tatsuo could see showed hollow cheeks and bruised knuckles.
The boy didn't react to being watched. Not immediately.
To him, the world around didn't exist—just the contents of the trash and the instinctual need to survive.
Minako's voice broke the stillness.
"Papa… can we help him?"
Tatsuo blinked. "You want to help him?"
She nodded quickly. "He looks really hungry. That's… that's not okay."
Tatsuo hesitated, glancing down at the bag in his hand. He had packed just enough for dinner—some fresh tofu, a few vegetables, and two sandwiches he'd bought from the corner deli. Simple, but comforting. One was egg salad. The other, tonkatsu.
He was planning to eat them both while watching the news.
'What's a meal, though, compared to this kid hunger?' he thought.
He looked at his daughter's face. The innocence. The conviction.
And in that moment, he felt proud.
"Alright," he said, crouching and pulling out the chicken sandwich. "Let's give him this one. It's the better one anyway."
Minako's eyes lit up. She took the sandwich with both hands, then slowly approached the boy.
"Um… excuse me?"
The boy tensed. He didn't turn around immediately. His hand froze halfway into the garbage.
Minako didn't flinch. "You look like you haven't eaten today. Maybe longer. Do you want this?"
Slowly, the boy turned. His face was partially covered by the shadow of his hood. But his eyes—though dull, sunken, and ringed with exhaustion—met hers.
Jetsling Beroba didn't speak right away.
'A kid? No... a girl. Why's she talking to me?' he thought. People just usually ignore kids like him. She doesn't look scared though.
He scanned the area instinctively. 'Traps? Police? A set-up?' His mind raced, paranoia sharpened by a year on the streets.
But her hands didn't tremble. And behind her stood a man—presumably her father—with a gentle, patient smile. No tricks. No pity. Just… kindness.
Jetsling reached out slowly.
"...Thanks," he rasped. His voice sounded alien to him. Cracked. Rusty.
He took the sandwich like it was made of glass.
Minako smiled at him, then gave a little bow.
"Be careful, okay?"
Jetsling stared at her.
A warmth spread in his chest that he hadn't felt in a long, long time.
He gave the faintest nod.
"I will."
And then, like smoke, he turned and disappeared into the narrow path behind the alley, sandwich held close to his chest.
---
Tatsuo and Minako stood quietly for a moment, watching the boy go.
"He didn't even look that old…" Minako murmured.
"No," Tatsuo agreed. "Probably around your age. Maybe a little older."
"Why doesn't anyone help him?"
Tatsuo looked up at the sky.
'Because too many people don't want to see. Because they think it's someone else's problem. Or they're afraid. Or tired. Or they just stop caring entirely.'
"I don't know," he said aloud. "But you did. That's what matters."
Minako looked up at him, her expression thoughtful.
"I want to help people like him someday. Not just with sandwiches. But really help."
Tatsuo reached down and gently squeezed her hand.
"You already did more than most heroes do."
They walked the rest of the way home in silence, the golden light of evening falling gently over their backs.
---
Elsewhere, crouched atop a weathered rooftop, Jetsling chewed slowly on the sandwich.
It tasted like real food. Warmth. Memory.
'She looked me in the eye. Like I mattered. Like I wasn't a monster and trash. That kind of soul can be said to be rare around here.'
He looked out over the city, the sandwich now finished. Wind tousled his hair, and the distant rumble of train tracks echoed against the buildings.
"They didn't ask anything of me. Didn't tell me to be good. Didn't scold me for digging through trash. Just... gave."
He closed his eyes.
"Minako. That was her name if I'm hearing right "
He committed it to memory.
"I'll repay that kindness one day. No matter what!"