On the way to work, he walked the familiar path, the one lined with trimmed hedges and smooth stone. He wore a fine suit that fit him perfectly, and shoes that shone with the quiet confidence of success. They were expensive shoes. Not just in price, but in meaning. They marked how far he had come.
The morning air was clean. His thoughts were orderly. The day felt planned.
Then he heard splashing.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just enough to interrupt the rhythm of his steps.
By the pond, a small child was struggling. Arms flailing. Feet slipping beneath dark water. No parent. No guardian. No one else.
Time slowed.
His first thought wasn’t fear. It was calculation.
These shoes will be ruined.I’ll be late.Someone else must be coming.
He looked around.Nothing moved but the water.
Inside him, two voices began to speak.
One said:You’ve worked hard for this life. You deserve to keep it intact.
The other said nothing at first. It simply showed him an image:a small hand breaking the surface of the pond, reaching, not for rescue, but for connection.
He noticed something then, the suit, the shoes, the schedule... they all existed only because life had once protected him.Because someone, somewhere, had chosen him over convenience.
He stepped closer to the water.
The cold touched his shoes. The shine dulled.The cost became irrelevant.
When he lifted the child out, the child clung tightly not knowing gratitude, not knowing debt, only knowing safety.
Later, sitting on the edge of the path, soaked and late, he looked at his ruined shoes.
They no longer looked expensive.
They looked honest.
And something inside him felt preserved like salt on food, not to impress, but to sustain.
I
nspired by the 1971 thought experiment bu Peter Singer
