We moved into this apartment just three days ago.
The air still carried the smell of packing tape and cement dust. Cardboard boxes stood stiffly in the corners, labeled in my father's overly neat handwriting—like calligraphy written on scrap: Books, Kitchen, Documents.
I looked for a box with my name on it. There wasn't one.
My things had been unpacked on the first day, as if I were a guest who needed to stay ready to leave at any moment.
At the bus stop in front of the building, the bakery's glass window reflected the steam from a coffee machine, blurring our shapes.
One of us was tall, with perfectly even shoulders, black hair neatly styled—held in place by cheap pomade that smelled too strong. The other—me—held a school bag whose strap was too long for my shoulder.
My uniform was wrinkled.
My father's clothes were not.
In my city, shoes are often more honest than faces.
Mine were covered in dust.
My father's shoes were clean, but the soles were worn thin.
"Are you cold?" my father asked.
I shook my head. Even though I was.
He pulled his jacket zipper down halfway, then stopped.
"Oh. All right. Later, then."
He always believed the first answer.
The bakery cashier glanced at us.
It wasn't a new look.
The same look as yesterday at the minimarket, in the apartment elevator, and the day before—at the building management office.
"Your little brother is very cute," the cashier smiled, her fingers lingering a moment too long as she handed the change back to my father.
My father froze for half a second.
Always like that.
"Ah… this is my child," he said, smiling politely.
The cashier let out a small laugh.
"Really? You two look like siblings."
I stared at the bread shelf.
Only one strawberry cream bun—my favorite—was left.
"My dad gets told that a lot," I said.
My father turned quickly.
"You don't need to answer," he said softly.
I nodded.
He was always afraid I'd sound rude.
My father took money from his wallet.
Exact change. Not a bit more.
"Which one do you want?" he asked.
I pointed to the cheapest bread.
My father nodded.
Then he took the strawberry cream bun instead.
He always did that—
listened to my choice, then quietly corrected it.
The cashier wrapped the bread quickly.
"Anything else? Kids your age usually buy two."
My father smiled.
"He doesn't eat much."
I didn't argue.
Outside, the bus still hadn't arrived. The winter wind carried the smell of coffee from the café next door—a smell that made your stomach empty faster.
Two women stood not far from us, both in their twenties. Long coats, neat hair, voices lowered.
"He's so patient," one of them said.
"Yeah," the other replied.
"Men like that are rare these days."
"Especially someone so young," the first added.
"He really takes care of his little brother."
"That's why he looks even more handsome," the second said.
I turned slightly—
not toward them,
but toward my father.
"Dad, did you hear them?" I asked quietly.
He nodded.
"Oh."
He shifted half a step, placing his body a little more between me and the wind.
"Next time, just tell me if you're cold," he said.
His voice was serious.
As if he'd just solved the most important problem of the day.
His hand lifted for a moment, hesitated, then dropped again.
He never knew where to put his hands.
Adults always knew exactly what to say to my father. For some reason, they always made sure I heard it first.
Inside the bus, my father broke the bread into two uneven pieces.
"Do you want the big one or the small one?" he asked.
"The small one."
He nodded.
Then silently switched the pieces.
The bus started moving. I took a slow bite.
Today was my first day at my new school.
My father said it was a good one—far enough, but the transportation costs were still manageable.
My father ate the smaller piece.
He always said he wasn't hungry in the morning.
He smiled at me, but his eyes drifted to a flyer taped to the bus pole:
"Part-Time Job Available."
I looked out the window.
My father is liked by many people because he always knows what to give.
And I know that starting tomorrow, my father might not have time to sleep either.
—To be continued—