The rain fell without mercy that afternoon, turning the narrow street into a silver river of cold water and reflections. Most people hurried past, heads down, collars raised, minds occupied with warm rooms and dry clothes waiting somewhere else.
But near the silent row of closed blue shops, one small scene stood still against the moving world.
An old man sat on a low wooden stool at the edge of the road. His jacket was thin, darkened by rain, and a worn plastic bag rested loosely on his head like a fragile helmet. In front of him lay a simple display of vegetables: green onions, cucumbers, purple eggplants, and a small pile of white bulbs arranged carefully on a piece of cardboard.
And beneath that same piece of cardboard, sharing its narrow shelter, were two dogs.
One was black, with gentle eyes clouded by age or hardship. The other was golden-brown, its fur thick and damp, pressed close to the old man’s knee. They sat quietly, their bodies touching, their heads lowered slightly to avoid the rain that slipped through the uneven edges of their shelter.
The cardboard was too small to protect them all.
Yet the man leaned forward, adjusting it again and again, making sure it covered the dogs first.
A Life Measured in Small Things
No one knew exactly how long the old man had been selling vegetables on that street.
Some said ten years. Some said longer.
He never shouted to attract customers. He never complained about the heat or the rain. Every morning, he appeared before sunrise, arranging his vegetables as neatly as if they were treasures, not goods that might earn him just enough for a bowl of rice.
His name, to most people, was simply “the old vendor.”
To the dogs, he was everything.
They had come to him years ago—one after the other. The black dog arrived first, thin as a shadow, ribs like fingers pressing against its skin. The old man had shared half of his lunch without hesitation.
The golden dog followed months later, wounded on one leg, frightened by every passing sound. The man cleaned the wound with water from a cracked bottle and wrapped it with a strip torn from his own shirt.
From that day on, they never left.
They guarded his vegetables when he slept sitting upright. They barked softly at strangers who stepped too close. At night, they curled beside him in the narrow space under a broken staircase where he rested.
They had no collars. No names that anyone else used.
But the old man spoke to them as if they were children.
“You eat first,” he would whisper.
“You stay warm.”
“I’m fine.”
Rain That Soaked Everything but the Heart
That day, the rain came suddenly, heavy and cold.
Customers disappeared within minutes. Shops closed their metal doors. The street emptied.