The worn sign of the little art shop, “Cozy Corner,” creaked sadly in the November wind. Old Elias counted a pitiful handful of coins, realizing with bitterness that next month he would have nothing left to pay the rent.
Just then, the bell above the door gave a timid ring.
A shivering boy of about ten stood in the doorway. His jacket was far too thin for the weather, and in his reddened hands he clutched a few small coins. For a long moment, he stared in wonder at the display of professional paints. Then he walked to the counter and poured his coins onto it.
“I need the cheapest sketchbook you have. I want to draw a gift for my mom while she’s in the hospital,” he said, his voice trembling despite himself.
The money was not even enough for the thinnest notebook.
Elias looked into the child’s desperate eyes. The old man sighed heavily, closed the cash register, and reached up to the highest shelf. He took down the finest sketchbook in a thick leather cover and a costly set of graphite pencils.
“This is a set for real artists,” Elias said gently, pushing the coins back toward the boy. “Your mother is going to get better.”
The child pressed the sketchbook to his chest as if it were the greatest treasure in the world.
“I will never forget this,” he whispered, then disappeared into the cold twilight.
Twenty-five years passed.
Elias, now completely gray and worn down by life, slowly packed his belongings into cardboard boxes. The bank had finally taken the building because of his debts. Tomorrow, the shop he had given his whole life to would close forever.
Suddenly, the door opened.
A tall, elegantly dressed man stood on the threshold.
“I’m sorry,” Elias said without lifting his tired eyes. “We’re closed. Forever.”
“I didn’t come to buy anything,” the stranger replied.
He walked to the counter and placed a timeworn leather-bound sketchbook on top of it.
The old man’s heart skipped a beat.
With trembling hands, Elias opened the cover. On the first page was a breathtaking portrait of a smiling woman. Beside it lay an official document covered in stamps and signatures.
“You don’t remember me,” the man said, tears filling his voice. “But I remember you. That sketchbook helped my mother survive her darkest days. And it helped me become the man I am today.”
Elias looked down at the paper.
It was the deed to the entire building, written in his name.
“Now this is your private gallery, Mr. Elias,” the man said softly. “And it will never close again.”
