Every morning started the same way for Anya. Her phone blared its piercing “tr-r-r-r”, and she, squinting, reached for the “snooze” button. Then she lay for five minutes, convincing herself that this day would definitely be good. Coffee brewed on the stove, always running over, and the girl hurriedly grabbed a thick coat, pulled on her boots, snatched her bag – and dashed out onto the street.
She knew the bus stop like the back of her hand. The same faces every day: a woman with a shopping bag, a guy with headphones, two schoolboys always pulling each other’s hoods. Every day was like a carbon copy. Even the bus arrived precisely at 8:05.
But that day, something was different.
At the very bench stood a boy. About ten years old, no more. Small, skinny, with a box in his hands. It was neatly covered with a kitchen towel, as if something very important lay inside. Next to it, directly on the ground, lay a cardboard sign: “Homemade pies – 50 rubles.”
Anya froze for a second. Normally, such little things didn’t catch her attention. But there was something about this boy.
“Well, look at that,” she muttered under her breath, approaching closer.
He looked frozen, despite wearing a long coat and a knitted hat. The mittens on his hands were so large that his fingers barely poked out. But in his gaze – clear, slightly shy eyes – shone something special.
Anya bent down to read the sign.
“Pies, you say?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.
The boy slightly lowered his eyes but nodded:
“Yes. Homemade. With cabbage and potatoes.”
His voice was thin but confident. Clearly, this wasn’t the first time he was explaining this.
She dug her hand into her coat pocket, found a bill, and handed it to him.
“Give me one.”
He quickly wrapped a pie in a small bag and handed it to Anya: “Thank you very much, miss,” he added, smiling.
Anya took the pie in her hands; it was still warm and heated her gloveless palms. It smelled… real. Like potatoes, fried onions, the kind of homemade food she hadn’t eaten in years.
When the bus finally arrived, Anya took her usual seat by the window. But thoughts of the boy lingered. Who was he? Why was he standing there alone? Where were his parents?
The pie lay in her hands. Anya unwrapped it and took a bite.
“Wow, it’s delicious,” she muttered, almost dropping crumbs on her coat.
But the taste was not the most important thing to her. Questions swirled in her mind. She wanted to know more.
“I’ll buy another one tomorrow,” she thought. And this morning became the beginning of something new.
The next day Anya saw him again. The same spot, the same box under the towel, and even, it seemed, the same old coat. He stood slightly sideways to the wind, hiding his face in his raised collar.
She approached closer, adjusting her scarf.
“So, how are the pies doing?” she asked with a smile.
The boy initially seemed taken aback, as if he didn’t expect her to approach again. But then he beamed a sincere smile that seemed to make it a bit warmer despite the chilly morning breeze.
“Good! I almost sold out yesterday,” he said, a bit shyly.
Anya pulled out her wallet, leisurely flipping through the bills.
“Let me take two today,” she said.
The boy skillfully wrapped the pies in napkins and handed them to her.
“Thank you!” he said, slightly bowing his head.
Anya didn’t hurry away. She stood for a bit longer, observing the boy. She couldn’t tell: was he really not cold, or had he just gotten used to it?
“Listen, why are you selling pies? Are your parents making you?”
She tried to make the question sound casual, but the boy tensed a bit, as if unsure whether to answer. Then he shook his head.
“No, I’m doing it myself,” he said, looking down at his shoes.
“By yourself?” Anya asked, feeling her curiosity ignite.
The boy raised his head and added resolutely:
“I want to buy a Christmas gift for my mom.”
Anya slightly raised her eyebrows.
“Really? What kind of gift?”
He hesitated for a second, as if searching for words.
“A coat. She’s wanted one for a long time. Hers is very old, already cold,” he finally said, clenching his mittens into fists.
These words clicked something in Anya’s mind. She imagined this mother—a woman who probably always worked hard, striving for her son, but hardly ever bought anything special for herself. Anya also remembered herself as a child.
She too had wanted to make a gift for her mom. She saved money all summer by helping a neighbor with gardening, but it still wasn’t enough. In the end, she bought a cheap keychain, and her mom later smiled and said it was the most beautiful gift in her life.
“Good for you,” Anya softly said, looking at the boy with a smile.
He smiled back, but this time his gaze was a bit embarrassed.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, looking away.
These simple, honest words made her see the boy differently. He didn’t just want to earn money. He wanted to do something real, something important for his mom.
She nodded, took her pies, and headed for the bus. But even sitting in her usual spot by the window, she couldn’t stop thinking about his words.
At work, Anya tried to focus, but her thoughts returned again and again to the boy at the bus stop. She pictured him—with the box in his hands, his cheeks frostbitten, but with such determination in his eyes.
Colleagues in the office discussed the quarterly report. Someone complained that Excel had crashed again, someone else grumbled about the broken coffee machine. But Anya was silent, turning the same thought over in her mind: “How can I help this kid?”
She felt the urge to speak up several times but stopped herself. “What will I say now? They’ll think I’m weird.”
However, during the lunch break, she finally decided to speak up.
“Guys, listen,” she began, standing up from the table.
A few people turned toward her, some continued scrolling on their phones.
“At the bus stop where I wait, there’s a boy selling pies. Homemade. He’s saving money to buy his mom a winter coat.”
The room went quiet. Even the noisiest colleagues were distracted from their screens.
“So what?” asked Pasha, a programmer from the neighboring department, pushing his laptop aside.
“I was thinking… We often buy pastries from the store anyway. Maybe we could order from him? It tastes good for us, and it’s beneficial for him,” Anya said excitedly, yet confidently.
Many glanced at each other.
“Are the pies tasty?” asked Olya, who was sitting across and twirling a pen in her fingers.
“Very! I tried them. With cabbage and potatoes. Everything’s fresh,” Anya smiled, remembering how she ate the pie that morning.
Silence hung for a few seconds. Anya was already bracing for rejection, but then she heard:
“You know, it’s a good idea.” It was Masha, who usually didn’t show much enthusiasm. “We always buy buns at the bakery. Why not help the kid?”