Open With Heart

It was the beginning of May, and mornings had started arriving like shy guests—quiet, fragrant, and full of promise. Birds chirped in the awakening trees, and the early breeze carried the scent of violets and freshly tilled earth.

Sunlight slanted over the rooftops of the small town, sliding down brick walls and creeping across sidewalks still damp with dawn. Only one thing could rival that scent: the warm, sweet aroma wafting from the old bakery two streets over.

On the corner of Bartók Street stood a little shop. Its walls were worn, its awning faded, but the place pulsed with a quiet kind of love. No neon signs flashed above the door.

No bold letters screamed for attention. Just a hand-carved wooden sign above the frame, one that had hung there for decades:
“Open With Heart.”

This was Bálint’s shop. Everyone knew it. But no one ever called it by its legal name—if it even had one. To the townspeople, it was simply “Bálint bácsi’s place.”

The shop opened at six sharp. But they were always there twenty minutes earlier. Three dogs—one old, one limping, one barely more than a tuft of fur—waiting silently like fuzzy, disciplined soldiers.

There was Buksi, the stoic brown mutt with sharp eyes and a noble air. Foltos, the patchy survivor with one ear and no vision in his left eye, yet somehow always knew where to sit.

And Pötyi, the tiny, trembling ball of white fur whose paws barely reached the edge of the first stair.

They never barked. Never whined. They just waited.

The shop door creaked each morning when Bálint bácsi—old Bálint, seventy-two years and still stubborn—appeared with a steaming bucket in his hand.

“Good morning, boys… or girls… who even knows anymore?” he’d say, his smile creasing deep into his weathered face. “Already here again? Beat the postman, as usual.”

Their tails wagged politely—just a hint of movement, like they were trying not to be rude but could hardly contain their joy.

Bálint set down three mismatched metal bowls, spooning in warm rice and liver he’d cooked before sunrise.

“There you go. Liver stew today. Had the same myself, actually.” He chuckled. “Getting to a point where I might start stealing bites from *your* food.”

The sun had just climbed high enough to spill light over the kindergarten fence across the street when Marci, the town’s postman, strolled in for his morning coffee.

“You really cook for them *every* morning?” he asked, inserting coins into the ancient vending machine.

“I do,” Bálint replied with a shrug. “They’re my pre-coffee ritual.”

“They ever miss a day?”

“Never. Not even in the rain. They always know when I’ll show.”

Marci stepped to the window and peered outside. “Some folks could learn a thing or two from those dogs.”

“At least they never ask for plastic bags,” Bálint quipped, and both men laughed.

The shop closed at two. That’s all Bálint could manage these days. After his wife Ágnes passed four years ago, things had slowed. He lived alone now, in the small apartment above the store.

Their two children had long since moved to Germany. They called monthly, sometimes more, but phone calls, he had learned, were poor substitutes for presence.

And even though the shop lights turned off in the afternoon, he was never *really* done for the day. If someone knocked late in the evening—out of bread, low on potatoes—he’d always answer. He didn’t have it in him to say no.

But one ritual remained sacred: the dogs’ second supper.

At night, when the town had grown sleepy and quiet, he’d pack up whatever leftovers he had—rice, sausage, bits of meat—and go out hunting for them. The dogs knew the drill.

They never waited at the shop after sunset. Instead, they appeared like ghosts at their usual spots—the park bench behind the old kindergarten, or the bus stop by the hospital.

“Evening, boys!” he’d call softly. “Got some kolbász today. Pötyi, wait your turn, will you?”

They ate happily, tails swishing against the pavement as Bálint sat on the edge of the bench, watching them.

Sometimes he talked. Not much. Just enough to keep his voice in use.

“A lady came in today,” he muttered one evening. “Wanted to adopt you, Foltos. Said you were a sweetheart. But I told her you’re family now. No adoptions. You stay with us, alright?”

Foltos cocked his head and blinked—whether in understanding or habit, Bálint couldn’t say. But it felt enough like yes.

That night, when he came back upstairs, a white envelope waited in his mailbox. Thick. Official.

His stomach dropped.

Inside, the words were as cold as the paper:
“Due to unpaid debts… property seizure… eviction within 30 days…”

He sat heavily on his kitchen stool. The steam from the dog food still rose below in the street. But the shop—*his* shop, the bench, the bowls, the dogs—his whole rhythm of life was under threat.

The next morning, the dogs were there, right on time. Of course they were.

But Bálint didn’t smile.

“Morning… or something like it,” he said softly, unlocking the door. “Might’ve put extra kolbász in today. Who knows how many mornings we’ve got left, hmm?”

They waited like little monks. Faithful. Patient.

That’s when Marci came in, his brow furrowed.

“I saw them last night. Black car. Suits. Something wrong?”

Bálint didn’t pretend. “They’re taking it. The shop. The flat. All of it. Debts. Taxes. I just… I just cook for the dogs.”

“People know what you do,” Marci said quietly. “They care.”

“Doesn’t stop the papers, son.”

The bell jingled. A young woman stepped in, a baby cradled on her hip. Sunlight framed her like a halo.

“Are you the man who feeds the three little dogs every day?” she asked.

“That’s me.”

“I brought something.” She held out a paper bag. “My dog was a stray once too. Ever since I saw what you do, I told myself I’d come by. Just some canned food… and a little money.”

Bálint’s eyes filled. “You’ve no idea what this means.”

“I think I do,” she smiled, and left as quietly as she came.

That afternoon, he sat in the back room, staring at a photo. Himself, Ágnes, their two kids, and a dog. Their first one. Maybe that’s when it all began.

Then—knock knock.

“Come in,” he said, almost forgetting.

It was Mr. Takács. The official. Polished shoes, silver briefcase, bureaucratic coldness.

“I’m sorry, sir. But we have to proceed. In 30 days, the premises must be vacated as per court orders.”

“I know,” Bálint nodded. “Just… not today. Please. I still have to feed them.”

“Feed who?”

“The dogs. They wouldn’t understand. Don’t take *that* from them too.”

Takács hesitated. Something in his face shifted. Then, with a silent nod, he turned and left.

The next morning was not like the others.

Bálint opened his door and stopped short.

The three dogs were there, as always.

But behind them… people.

Sára néni, with her cane and weekly jar of sour cream. Little Laci on his bike, waiting for his gummy worms. Edit from the flower shop. Marci, of course, with fresh flyers in hand.

And more were arriving.

A silent protest. A community come home.

Someone had written a new sign and hung it under the old one. It read:

“Open With Heart — And Kept Alive With Love.”