The old beggar positioned himself, as he always did, on a small curb, tightening the collar of his tattered coat around his neck. Even though the sun shone brightly, casting shimmering colours and reflections off the fresh snowfall, he couldn’t shake the chill that left him shivering like an autumn leaf ready to be detached from its branch.
The main road—the only one free of snow—was eerily empty. The village remained enveloped in a profound stillness, with only birds searching for food and the frail old man to keep them company. He waited patiently for the cheerful rush of the children about to emerge from school, their laughter bringing the promise of a few coins and perhaps a slice of bread. More than sustenance, though, he craved the warmth of their smiles and the glimmer of joy they could offer, enough to carry him through the night and into the next day.
He had developed a deep affection for that small group of children, to the point that he could easily identify Mirella’s footsteps among the crowd. Mirella was a delicate girl with large, expressive eyes that shone like two pearls. He recognized Pierino by his vibrant red shorts, Franco by his soothing voice, Giuliana by her cheeky little nose, and Gisella by her golden blonde braids. He cherished the sound of their joyful laughter, but what truly captivated him was the pure and innocent tenderness of their hearts.
A child’s heart radiates the brightness of day, always visible and unencumbered by the shadows of doubt and fear that often haunt adults. Grownups rush past, blind to the suffering and struggles of those around them. They fail to notice when someone is in pain, when tears are silently shed, or when hunger sets in. Unlike children, they seldom offer solace or support, robbing themselves and others of meaningful connections.
But the children! Oh, how they lit up his world! Their bright, youthful faces would approach him, calling out “Grandpa, grandpa!” as they paused on the main road to share a kind word or make a request—maybe a fairy tale or one of the tiny spinning tops, either pure white or adorned with red and green stripes, which he crafted from pieces of wood he had received as alms. In exchange for their gifts—warm bread, a bit of change, and so much untouched innocence—he delighted in creating these little wonders.
He cherished them deeply; they were the spark in his otherwise sombre day, filled with a profound sense of melancholy that made everything feel as though it were fading away. Thoughts of these children often filled his mind, and he kept little treasures in his large pockets just for them: vibrant stickers, glimmering buttons, the occasional old pen nib. He felt a genuine joy each time he could grant their wishes, brightening their faces with happiness.
He had truly become their cherished friend, and to spare their mothers from scolding them for loitering in the street because of him, he had made it a habit to walk each of them home. Their mothers appreciated his efforts and showed their gratitude with generous rewards for his kindness.
Yet, on that particular day, time seemed to stretch endlessly before him. He attempted to recite the Rosary, with each “Hail Mary” filled with fragrant joy, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Frustrated with himself, he tried to focus as he usually did, but the thoughts simply wouldn’t come!
Nevertheless, he had woven an enchanting story for Giuliana, who had been eagerly waiting for one. In that marvellous tale, every flower concealed a gem in its heart, the animals sang melodiously, and a little orphan boy, who had endured hardship for so long, suddenly found himself welcomed into the King’s house, draped in a soft blue velvet cloak embroidered with shimmering silver threads spun from strands of moonlight.
They still hadn’t arrived—why could that be?
Ah! Maybe that little scamp Pierino had gotten himself into some trouble and was held back as punishment, leaving his little sisters and Franco, who adored him, anxiously waiting!
Of course, that had to be the reason!
“Ah! Pierino, Pierino! Just wait until you hear from me!”
“I brought you a whistle to mimic the nightingale; just look at how beautiful it is! I polished it until it shone, hoping you’d love it; but in this moment, you see, I won’t give it to you!”
He was resolute.
He spoke loudly, as if aimed at the boy who wasn’t there. “You must learn to discipline these little rascals!” Just words, though! He knew it was futile. All it would have taken was for the child to sit on his lap and, with two soft caresses, ask him to relent. “You’re truly the kindest old man I have ever met. Your beard isn’t ragged like the other poor vagrants; instead, it’s a soft, pure white that reminds me of my grandpa’s. Tell me, Francesco, have you ever been a grandpa?”
“I used to be, Pierino, but unfortunately, I’m not anymore. Still, I can be yours, I can be everyone’s grandpa if that’s what you’d like.”
“Of course, we would love that!”
That’s what they would have said, and it would have been enough to dispel any lingering regret, filling him with warmth as if he still had his little grandson on his lap, just like he used to.
He paused his mumbling. Their delay began to worry him, stirring anxiety within, and he felt a bitter sensation rising in his throat, stealing away the peacefulness that usually accompanied his daily wait.
Oh, poor Francesco! At your age (how old, eighty?), it seems that counting the years that are weighing you down or even the days of the week have become a challenge. After being unwell for a few days, the concept of time has slipped away from you. Today is a holiday, yet you remain oblivious to this joy. The beautiful weather may call you outside, but that would be reckless. Don’t you notice that the shortness of breath lingers on, still a reminder of your limits?
You won’t be able to feel the warmth of those little hands that often fit so playfully in your own weathered palms. It’s a sensation like nurturing a tiny life—a rosy azalea bud nestled in dark, damp soil, blossoming with tender hope.
The white-hooded pines of Villa Teresa nearby sway gently, almost as if warning you, “No, no, you won’t see them today!” The chill of evening creeps closer, numbing your limbs and soon, night will envelop you. It’s time to go back, to that old attic where no one awaits you, and this time, you have nothing to take with you—nothing but memories.
He struggles to rise, but he can’t! Something is holding him back, and he is lost in a strange house. A gentle numbness caresses his legs, giving him a refreshing sensation, helping him to forget the cold that once engulfed him as warmth embraces him. In his ears, a ringing resonates, resembling the rapid flutter of butterfly wings, prompting him to close his eyes. His head sways slightly. He’s fallen asleep! As evening unfolds, the sky transforms into a tapestry of gems: each one filled with stories, including Giuliana’s, and many more. Even as he dreams, he awaits the kindness of those little hearts glowing in the twilight, oblivious to the fact that his friends are already nestled snugly in dreams of their own. He softly murmurs, “A penny for charity!”
Soaring on gusts of wind, those stars are already cascading from the sky, tethered by invisible threads—threads of miracle— onto the coat that gently cradles them. “So much gold! Thank you, my God!” he whispers, joyfully counting and dividing them. With this fortune, he can banish hunger and escape the biting cold forever. A soft breeze carries the vibrant scents of April, a month filled with joy and melodies as sweet as Franco’s playful voice, as radiant as Mirella’s sparkling eyes.
It’s all so beautiful! His heart beats slowly now, no longer racing with anxiety about tomorrow.
Listen: in his dreams, he hears a little footstep approaching along the vast, silent road. The footsteps pause. He longs to open his eyes to behold this visitor; it can only be a child! But his eyelids resist, and after a momentous effort, when they finally flutter open… he discovers himself in the King’s house, draped in the blue velvet cloak embroidered with silver, a mirror of the one worn by the little orphan boy in his cherished story.
The angels gather to welcome him, their voices singing: those who, in the depths of night, had infused his heart with the radiant light of Heaven.