It was an ordinary weekday evening — the subway rumbled softly, dozed, and disgorged tired commuters along the line toward home. I was sitting by the window.

At the next station the doors opened and a boy of about ten climbed into the carriage. He looked like he’d skipped school: messy hair, wrinkled shorts, and a worn sneaker in his hand. But most of all — he was barefoot. On one foot he wore a thin striped sock. He sat down in a free seat between two passengers and tried to keep out of sight.

Still, the people around him noticed. Someone abruptly turned their gaze to their phone, another stared before pretending to be lost in thought. But the man sitting to the boy’s right was different. He wore work clothes — paint-stained jeans, a thick jacket and heavy boots. His eyes kept moving from the child’s bare feet to the bag at his own feet. He seemed to be thinking.

Two stations passed, then another. At the fourth he suddenly leaned forward, cleared his throat — loud enough that everyone looked up — and said something that shocked everyone.

“Listen. I just bought sneakers for my son. But he can do without. He already has a good pair. You, on the other hand, need them more.”

From his bag he took out a box and opened the lid. Inside were brand-new blue sneakers with the tags still on.

The boy watched, stunned. First the shoes, then the man, then the shoes again. He took them, tried them on carefully… and they were perfect.

He looked up; a shy smile appeared on his lips. Then, almost in a whisper: “Thank you.”

The man shrugged, as if it were nothing: “Pass them on when you can.”

The boy got off at the next station. He was no longer hunched over; his feet were in new sneakers — and he carried something else, invisible but even more precious: faith in the kindness of people.