A sister left him penniless on the street, but he learned to be happy.
Sometimes a chance encounter can change everything—make you pause, take a closer look, reflect. I’m an empathetic person; others’ pain weighs heavily on me, and this story still lingers in my mind. For days, I haven’t slept well—my thoughts keep returning to a young man I met near the train station in Manchester.
I was on my way to visit my friend—just an ordinary day, the usual city bustle. People rushed past, cars honked, a chilly wind nipped at our faces. Then my gaze caught on a small figure. At first glance, he looked like a child. But on closer inspection, I realized he was a grown man, just slight in build and with an unsteady gait.
He carried a puppy—small, fluffy, with a wet nose and kind eyes. Under his arm, he clutched a bundle of old newspapers, threatening to slip free any moment. His movements were hesitant, his fingers stiff, his face slightly twisted. I understood—he had struggles. Mental or neurological, perhaps. But there was something so radiant and pure about him that I couldn’t walk by.
While I admired the puppy, he dropped the newspapers. I immediately rushed to help. As I tucked them into a bag from my purse, I asked gently, “Where are you taking them?”
Softly, he replied, “To the recycling centre. To earn some money for dog food.”
Those words hit harder than any slap.
While we gathered the papers, he told me he once lived with his mum. After she passed, his sister sold their flat, took the money, and moved abroad. Left him behind—no documents, no support, not a penny. No chance.
He said it without bitterness. Just matter-of-factly. As if he’d long accepted it. Now he lives in sheltered housing, scrapes by on scraps, collects scrap paper and bottles to buy food for his pup. His name’s Alfie. The dog… didn’t have a name.
Time passed. Then, on a frosty evening, I saw Alfie again. He walked down the street, holding the puppy—now grown, sturdy—on a makeshift lead. The dog recognized me, wagging its tail and yipping eagerly. I pulled some food from my bag, and the dog devoured it with such hunger my heart ached.
“He eats everything,” Alfie said proudly. “But he loves it most when I cook for him. Only, meat’s rare.”
We talked more. He told me how much he adored the dog—his only friend, his reason to keep going, his comfort against loneliness. They shared one blanket, split their last crumbs.
With childlike hope in his voice, Alfie said, “We saw another dog the other day. Looked just like him. I wondered if it was his mum… D’you think they’d know each other?”
My throat tightened. I barely held back tears right there on the busy street.
Then, suddenly, he asked, “D’you want to name him? I couldn’t think of one. Just call him ‘pup.’”
I nodded. “How about Sunny? Because you’re his light.”
He hugged the dog, met my gaze with wide eyes, and whispered, “Ta… That’s a good name. He’s my Sunny now.”
I walked home with a lump in my throat. My mind raced: *God, the world’s so unfair.* Some have flats, jewels, cars. Others live in worn-out rooms and share their last scraps with a pup—yet still glow with happiness.
I want to help Alfie, but I’m not wealthy. I can’t change his whole life. But now, whenever I see him, I bring something—food, a warm coat, just kind words. And you know what’s astonishing? He always smiles. He thanks me for every little thing like it’s heaven-sent.
People like him remind us: happiness isn’t in money, status, or perfect homes. It’s in a warm touch. A loyal gaze. A kind word. In not being alone.
Sometimes I want to scream, “Wake up! Look at the pain around you!” But I know—no one would hear.
So I’ll just do what I can. Because if one Sunny and one Alfie aren’t hungry or alone—then I’m not living in vain.
