The night was calm, the street softly lit by the faint glow of streetlights. A young man, around 20 or 21 years old, walked up to a small ice cream stall. His sharp features and confident stride instantly conveyed the impression of someone from a wealthy family. Dressed impeccably, he carried the air of someone who had never heard the word "no." His name was Kevin.
Kevin glanced at the ice cream menu for a brief second before speaking, his tone indifferent. "One vanilla cone."
The shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, nodded and quickly got to work. He prepared the ice cream with precision, handing it over to Kevin. "That's $2," he said politely.
Kevin reached into his wallet and pulled out a crisp $100 bill, handing it to the shopkeeper without hesitation. The man looked at the note in surprise, his hands pausing mid-air.
"This is a $100 note," the shopkeeper said, his voice calm. "I've just opened the stall for the night and don't have enough change."
Kevin raised an eyebrow, his expression sharp. "You don't have change for such a small note?" he asked, his voice carrying a faint edge of disbelief. "I don't have anything smaller than this. Just take it as a tip."
The shopkeeper shook his head with a small smile. "I appreciate the thought, but this is a very large tip for such a small purchase."
Kevin sighed, his irritation growing. "Then what do you want me to do? I'm not carrying loose change."
The shopkeeper studied him for a moment, then nodded to himself. "I'll pack some extra ice creams for you," he said. "You can share them with your friends or family. That way, the value is balanced."
Kevin rolled his eyes and waved dismissively. "Do what you like. I don't have time for this."
Without another word, the shopkeeper began packing a box with various flavors of ice cream. Once he was done, he placed the box in front of Kevin along with the vanilla cone.
"There you go," the shopkeeper said. "Enjoy these, or share them with someone."
Kevin picked up the box and cone, his expression unreadable. "Fine," he muttered flatly before walking away.
As he walked down the quiet street, Kevin took a bite of the vanilla cone. The creamy sweetness hit his tongue, and for a moment, he slowed his pace, savoring the flavor. So this is why she always wanted me to try ice cream from this shop, he thought, a faint smile appearing as the comfort of the taste lingered.
Kevin continued walking, the ice cream cone slowly melting in his hand. He sighed, wondering who to give the extra ice creams to, as he didn't have many friends. His gaze wandered to a group of stray cats lounging by the roadside. An idea sparked—why not share the ice cream with them?
Kneeling down, Kevin extended the cone towards the nearest cat, but before he could get any closer, a loud, commanding voice shattered the peace.
"Hey! Hey, you! Stop right there, you bastard, stop!"
Startled, Kevin turned his head to see where the voice had come from. A girl was running toward him, her apron fluttering behind her, her bag swinging by her side. Her hair danced wildly in the air, catching the faint light of the evening. Kevin blinked, confused. Was she shouting at him or someone else?
"Are you yelling at me?" he asked, his tone calm but puzzled.
The girl stopped suddenly near him, placing her hands on her hips. She tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "No, no, sir. I was shouting at your shadow," she said teasingly.
Kevin frowned. "Oh, good. Then I guess it's okay," he replied, only for her to scoff loudly.
"Of course, I'm shouting at you! Who else is here, genius?" Without waiting for an answer, she gently pushed him aside, crouched down, and took a small bag of cat food from her bag. She carefully poured it out for the cats, her actions showing care.
Kevin stood there, completely confused. No one had ever dared to talk to him like this before. Surprisingly, he didn't feel angry or annoyed. Instead, he felt… something he couldn't explain. He looked at her as if she were some rare, magical creature.
"You may have a nice face," she said shyly, not looking at him, "but that doesn't mean you can feed them anything." She turned to face him, her eyes strong yet kind. "I know they're street cats, but they have someone who cares for them. Yeah, that's right—me!" She puffed out her chest proudly. "What if Olive gets sick? She's still a baby!"
Kevin raised an eyebrow. "You named them?" he asked, surprised. "They're just stray cats."
She gasped, as if he had said something very wrong. "What do you mean, just stray cats? They're my family!"
"Then why not take them home?" he asked sarcastically.
Her proud expression faltered. "I wanted to," she said softly, "but my family doesn't allow it. So, I built them a little house here." She looked at the spot where the house used to be, only to find it destroyed, with a cruel sign that read, "No cats or dogs allowed."
Her face hardened. "Heartless people," she muttered angrily. Turning to Kevin, she asked, "Can you take them with you?"
He crossed his arms, his voice cold. "They're not my family. They're yours. Take care of them."
She glared at him, her frustration showing. "What's the point of a beautiful face if you don't have a heart?" Without waiting for his answer, she picked up the cats and moved them to an empty space nearby. She turned back to Kevin, her large, pleading eyes fixed on him.
"Will you help me move the wood?" she asked, her voice soft but insistent.
Kevin sighed, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. Stop looking at me like that."
As they worked together to rebuild the house, Kevin found himself doing something he hadn't done in his life : manual labor. The girl worked without stopping, her energy endless, and her determination spread to him. He hadn't done anything like this in his life, but there he was, moving planks of wood without complaint.
"She's… different," he thought, glancing at her. She smiled as she worked, her hands dirty, but she seemed to radiate a strange, warm energy.
Once the house was finished, she sat down next to him, brushing the dust off her hands. "You know," she started, "I found them one rainy day under a tree. The mother was shaking, trying to keep her kittens warm. I named her Misty, and her babies are Black, White, Brown, and little Olive. I've been taking care of them ever since."
Kevin listened quietly, something in her story touching an old feeling inside him. She stretched out her hand to him, her bright smile lighting up the darkening day.
"I'm Daisy," she said happily.
Kevin looked at her hand, noticing it was covered in sand. He looked at his own hands, realizing they were just as dirty. Carefully, he reached out and shook her hand. "I'm Kevin," he said.
For the first time in years, Kevin felt something he couldn't explain—a sense of warmth, of connection.