Around five years ago, there was a boy in my neighborhood. He was tall, slender, and some days, you could make out the beginnings of a scraggly beard on his chin. Normally, he wouldn’t be the object of my gaze from my apartment window, however, I couldn’t help but notice the same red and yellow striped shirt, black overalls, and boots he would wear every day. On his walk to school every morning, lugging his oversized backpack, I would watch him habitually slow down just a bit in front of the newest fire station where the glow of the red lights from the fire truck illuminated the rest of the street. I saw the boy admiring the firefighters standing outside, always making conversation with them, and then later, running to school because he was late. Every time, he would pass a small ice cream shop and whenever I looked in that direction, I only saw one or two people going in and out of that old, rundown store. It was made of bricks and had a wooden door, which seemed unpleasant to the eye, and was partly isolated from the rest of the stores on that block. Despite its bareness and plainness, the owner, who looked to be a 60-year-old man, was bright and cheerful all the time. The owner of this shop always cleaned the tables outside, looking towards the fire station, either because he wanted to grab the attention of customers, or simply because he was fascinated by the fire truck that blocked his view from seeing further down the street. 

One day, as I was sitting at the nearby cafe, looking out the open window that faced the side of the road where the fire station was, I spotted the sign that hung from the door of the ice cream shop. It read Store Closing, and I suddenly noticed how a couple of people stopped to read the sign but then continued walking without care. Even so, the man was outside cleaning up the seats and tables, unbothered. The boy was out in the city again, probably not going to school since it was a Saturday. Instead, it appeared he was going into every store trying to find a part-time job and I could see that he still wore the same outfit: red, yellow, and black. He came across the man, and I watched as he began helping him while I heard a part of their conversation through the quiet wind from the window in the cafe. 

“My store has no more employees and nobody comes to my store anymore. I think I’ll find something else to do,” the man sighed. The boy had a worried and despairing look on his face. The rest of the conversation was difficult to hear as more cars started to pass by. 

The next day, I came back to my usual spot in the cafe and when I glanced out the tinted window, the Store Closing sign was no longer there. In its place was paper. Advertisement papers. The boy was standing and handing advertisement papers to passersby. The next day, his friends were there. The following day, new tables and chairs. The day after that, white paint neatly covered the ugliness of the brick walls and a new glass door replaced the old wooden one.  I was amazed by how quickly this store transformed into a new aesthetic, but what was more surprising was that the boy no longer wore his usual clothes. Instead, he looked more formal and sophisticated. 

 Five years had passed, and the busyness of the ice cream shop, which is now always filled with customers, seems so lively and chaotic compared to the other stores next door. I always see the boy, working there, full time, and rarely do I see him standing outside the fire station. As it becomes colder, the luminescence of the red light from the fire truck starts to fade while the glittery decorations of the ice cream shop stand out from my apartment window.  Once in a while, I see some kids dragging their parents to get ice cream, but I always notice one girl who admires the liveliness from afar, then goes in to greet the owner.