Member-only story
Cold January
The Weight of Silence
It was the middle of January. The air was cold, and snow fell gently. If it weren’t so windy, I would have said it was a beautiful day. But the wind lashed at people with the snowflakes, stinging their skin, as if nature itself were taking part in a sadistic game. I was leaving the market I always shopped at.
Once again, my eyes fell on a small boy I had seen before. He was selling flowers in front of the market. He could hardly have been more than five or six years old. His hands were in his pockets, and he kept lifting and putting down his feet to keep warm. The sight shook me; he was the same age as my little son. While children his age were playing or watching cartoons, this boy was chained to forced labor.
I waited a little. When he was alone, I stepped closer:
— Hello, little one. How are you?
He gave me a faint smile when he saw me:
— I’m fine, thank you.
Snowflakes hit his face. He turned away from the cold, took his hands out of his pockets, and blew on them. After a brief pause, I asked:
— How do you manage to stay out here all day in this cold?
He just shrugged. What could he do? He was probably forced to.
