Abandoned and Broke, He Found the Path to Happiness

**Diary Entry – 16th October**

Sometimes a chance encounter changes everything—makes you stop, look closer, think. I’m a sensitive bloke; seeing others in pain weighs heavy on me, and this story hasn’t let go. For days, I’ve lain awake, thoughts circling back to a young man I met near the train station in Manchester.

I was on my way to see a mate—just an ordinary day amid the usual city bustle. Folk rushed past, cars honked, and a biting wind nipped at our faces. Then I spotted a slight figure. At first glance, I thought it was a child. But no—it was a bloke, just frail, with an uneven gait.

He cradled a puppy—small, scruffy, with a wet nose and kind eyes. Under his arm, he clutched a bundle of old newspapers, threatening to slip free. His movements were stiff, his fingers clumsy, his face slightly twisted. Clearly, he had difficulties—maybe neurological. Yet there was something so warm about him, I couldn’t walk by.

As I admired the pup, he dropped the papers. I helped gather them, shoving them into a bag from my rucksack, and asked gently, “Where’re you taking these?”

“To the recycling,” he murmured. “For dog food money.”

Those words hit harder than any slap.

While we stacked the papers, he told me he’d once lived with his mum. After she passed, his sister sold their flat, pocketed the cash, and vanished abroad. Left him with nothing—no papers, no support, not a penny. No chance.

He said it without bitterness. Just stated it, like he’d long made peace with it. Now he lives in a hostel for disabled folk, scrounges meals, collects scrap to feed his pup. His name’s Alfie. The dog? Didn’t have one.

Weeks later, on a frosty evening, I saw Alfie again. He walked his pup—now grown sturdier—on a makeshift lead. The dog recognised me, bounding over, tail wagging. I pulled snacks from my pocket. The way it devoured them near broke my heart.

“He eats anything,” Alfie said proudly. “But loves when I cook for him. Meat’s scarce, though.”

We talked. He spoke of how the dog was his only friend, his reason to keep going. They share a blanket, split every last bite.

With childlike hope, Alfie added, “The other day, we saw a stray that looked like him. Might’ve been his mum. D’you think they’d recognise each other?”

My throat tightened. I fought to keep composed right there on the busy street.

Then he asked, “Would you name him? I never could. Just call him ‘pup.’”

I nodded. “Call him Sunny. ’Cause you’re his light.”

He hugged the dog, wide-eyed, and whispered, “Ta… That’s perfect. My Sunny.”

Walking home, my chest ached. The unfairness screamed in my head: some have homes, jewels, cars—others scrape by in damp hostels, sharing crumbs with a mutt. Yet *he* glows with joy.

I can’t fix Alfie’s life. But whenever I see him now, I bring something—food, a warm coat, just kind words. And y’know what’s mad? He always smiles. Treats each scrap like a gift from heaven.

Blokes like him remind us: happiness isn’t cash, status, or a perfect house. It’s a warm hand. A loyal gaze. A kind word. Not being alone.

Sometimes I want to shout, “Open your eyes! Look at the hurt around you!” But no one’d hear.

So I’ll do what I can. If just one Sunny and one Alfie are fed and less lonely—then I’ve done alright.

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Abandoned and Broke, He Found the Path to Happiness
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