The man limped into the restaurant, his plastic sandals worn out and about to fall apart, his clothes disheveled and covered in dust. The smell of smoke from the kitchen, the smell of braised fish and fried meat made his stomach growl, his eyes kept following the plates of hot rice being brought out. He cautiously approached, his voice trembling: “Madam, please give me some leftover rice, any customer can leave it… I’m so hungry.” The whole restaurant fell silent for a moment, a few customers put down their chopsticks and looked up. The owner – a woman in her forties, sharp eyes and a tough voice – immediately frowned: “There’s no such thing as giving away leftover rice here, go somewhere else.”

The old man was startled and stepped back, his skinny hands trembling as he clutched the hem of his shirt. The coldness in that voice was like a knife cutting into his pride, which was already torn apart by poverty. Several customers began to whisper: “This lady is so stubborn, she won’t even give the leftovers to that poor old man?” A young man smacked his lips: “Poor thing, he must be very hungry, he looks so pitiful.” The sound made the shopkeeper’s face turn pale, but she still spoke sternly: “I said no, the leftovers are not for charity.”

The old man bowed his head, pursed his lips, his eyes filled with tears, his whole body trembling as if he was about to collapse. He was used to being refused, but this time was different, because his stomach was so full of hunger that tears kept flowing. “Please, just a little… I’ve been walking all day, I don’t have any more strength.” His voice was choked, hoarse like the wind lost in the night. The pitying looks from the diners made him feel even smaller, like a speck of dust that was superfluous in life.

The owner slammed the ladle down on the rice pot, the sound resounding throughout the restaurant. “Go away, you are standing here disturbing the customers, who wants to eat anymore!” She turned away, her face stern, but her eyes flashed with agitation. She was afraid that if she let her compassion overcome her, she would be looked down upon, taken advantage of, because many vagrants had come here to beg and cause trouble. Deep down, a conflict was rising, but she tried to suppress it.

The old man walked back tremblingly, his legs limping as if about to collapse, his hands clutching tightly onto the wooden pillars of the porch. The smell of braised fish from the table next to him wafted into his nose, making him dizzy, his stomach churning. “Well, I guess I’ll go somewhere else to beg…” his voice trailed off, then he turned and headed out into the street. The whispers from the table grew louder: “How cruel, giving a little rice won’t cost you anything.” “How can you be so heartless?”

The hostess pretended not to hear, her lips pressed tightly together, her hands still stirring the food onto the plates. But inside, each gossip was like a needle pricking, stinging with every beat. She looked at the thin back walking unsteadily, the shoulders hunched as if carrying all the burden of old age and hardship. “It’s so pitiful, sister. If you hadn’t given him a hand, he would have fallen.” The guest’s words accidentally touched the place she tried to hide: an old memory.

In her mind, the image of her father appeared – a man who was once considered a parasite because of poverty. When she was young, she had witnessed him silently begging for a piece of rice at the market and then being chased away, his eyes at that time were both humiliated and painful. She had vowed not to be weak, not to let that past come back to torment her. But now, before her eyes was an old man who was as miserable as her father back then. Her heart constricted, her throat choked, the rice ladle in her hand trembled.

She looked around and saw that a few customers had stopped eating, waiting to see her attitude. If she continued to be stubborn, no one would come to this restaurant with any sympathy. But if she gave away leftover rice, it would be like accepting meaningless pity, and further humiliating the beggar. She suddenly put down her ladle, took a deep breath, her eyes shining with determination. She picked up a plate of hot white rice, poured in some soup, and arranged the meat and fish neatly.

“Sir!” her voice rang out, firm but softer than before. The old man turned around in surprise, his eyes filled with tears. She approached, placed the plate of rice in his hands, and said slowly: “Leftovers are not given, but this restaurant always has delicious rice ready.” The whole restaurant fell silent for a few seconds, then the whispers died down, replaced by strange looks. The old man tremblingly accepted it, tears falling and blending into the white rice grains.

“Thank you… thank you, I… I’ve never had anyone give me that kind of thing,” he choked, his eyes lighting up as if on fire. The owner turned her face away slightly, hiding her fleeting smile, but her heart felt much lighter. The customers in the restaurant also stopped talking, a few nodded in satisfaction. A middle-aged man smacked his lips: “There, giving so generously is precious.” The atmosphere of the restaurant was bustling again, but in her heart, the wave of emotions had not yet subsided.

The old man sat in the corner of the restaurant, eating and shedding tears, each bite of rice seemed to save him from the abyss. She peeked at him, seeing him bow his head in gratitude over and over again, looking both miserable and happy. “Eat, eat until you’re full, don’t think about anything else,” she said softly, her voice softening a lot. The old man looked up, his dull eyes sparkling: “You’re so kind, this food is as delicious as home-cooked food, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt this warm in my stomach.” She suddenly stopped, a wave of agitation rising as before.

When the guests had thinned out, the old man finished his meal and stood up, trembling as he placed his hand on his chest: “I have nothing to repay, but I will remember this favor forever.” The owner looked at him, shook her head slightly: “No need to remember, as long as you still have the strength, try to live.” He smiled, a smile full of wrinkles, then quietly left. His thin figure gradually disappeared into the small alley, leaving her with a strange emptiness. She sighed, gently stroked her silver-streaked hair, suddenly realizing that she had just broken down a tough wall that had been built up over the years.

That night, she tossed and turned, remembering the image of the old man with his trembling wet eyes holding the plate of rice. She missed her father, the hard days of the past, and the times when people turned their backs on her. She wondered if she had just paid her father’s debt – the debt of a son who could not help him when he was alive. Tears fell on her pillow, warm and gentle. And in her heart, a seed of pity sprouted again, despite the many times she had tried to crush it.

From the next day, she still sold rice as usual, but her heart was different. Every time she saw a person wandering outside the door, she no longer brushed them off. Instead of leftover rice, she prepared some hot rice, wrapped it neatly, and gave it to them. “Eat it, and if you still have the strength, go do something else. Don’t collapse on the street.” Their grateful eyes made her feel relieved, although she still tried to keep her voice firm to hide her weakness.

Many customers began to look at her differently, no longer criticizing her, but telling each other stories about that day. Some said: “This restaurant owner may look tough on the outside, but he has a good heart.” Some nodded: “Giving leftovers is humiliating, giving good food is truly respectful.” She listened to everything, but only smiled silently, without making excuses. Deep down, she knew she had made peace with the past, with her father, and even with herself.