29/09/2026
THE HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS ❤️
Stories by Sharlo
Long before Paul knew what love was, he knew what it meant to have nothing.
He grew up at St Agnes Children’s Home, an old stone orphanage hidden high in the mountains.
On cold mornings, clouds floated below the buildings. In winter, mist crept through gaps in the windows, and the children slept two to a bed when blankets were scarce.
The orphanage was run by nuns who stretched every donation until it could stretch no further.
A sack of maize became porridge for a hundred children.
Old curtains became dresses.
Men’s shirts were cut down and resewn for small boys.
Nothing was wasted.
But somehow, shoes almost never arrived.
Perhaps donors assumed somebody else would send them.
Nobody did.
So when Paul, Matt, Annie and Angela became old enough to attend the secondary school in the village below the mountain, they walked there barefoot.
Every morning.
Down the rocky mountain path.
Across the little river.
Through the village.
And into school.
The village children noticed immediately.
“Here come the mountain children!”
Some laughed.
Others deliberately stared at their feet.
“Did the nuns forget your shoes?”
Paul pretended not to care.
Matt sometimes fought.
Angela cried secretly.
But Annie developed an answer.
“At least our feet are original. Your shoes all came from the same shop.”
That usually silenced them.
For a while.
⸻
Then one afternoon, something happened that would change Paul’s life.
On the mountain path, he found the remains of a dead animal.
Most children would have walked away.
Paul stopped.
He stared at the hide.
Touched it.
Thought.
Then dragged what he could salvage back to the orphanage.
Sister Bernadette nearly fainted.
“Paul! What are you bringing into my kitchen?”
“Shoes.”
She stared at the horrible-looking hide.
“Those are not shoes.”
Paul grinned.
“Not yet.”
⸻
Nobody had taught him leatherwork.
He simply experimented.
He cleaned the hide.
Scraped it.
Dried it.
Worked oil into it.
Rubbed it until the rough skin softened.
Then he found an old tyre in a rubbish skip at the end of the village.
He cut out the shape of his feet.
From discarded sackcloth, he unravelled strong pieces of twine.
His first shoe was terrible.
One side was higher than the other.
Matt laughed so hard he fell off his bed.
“If you wear those, one leg will arrive at school before the other!”
Paul threw a pillow at him.
Then he tried again.
And again.
Eventually, he produced something remarkable.
A simple pair of leather shoes with thick rubber soles.
Paul polished them until the leather shone.
The next morning, he walked into school wearing them.
The teasing stopped.
Everyone stared.
One boy finally asked:
“Where did you buy those?”
Paul smiled.
“I didn’t.”
⸻
Within weeks, Annie had shoes.
Then Angela.
Then Matt.
Soon the orphanage cook began visiting the slaughterhouse and returning with hides.
“For your factory,” he would joke.
Paul salted them carefully.
Dried them.
Cut them.
Stitched them.
His hands were rarely clean anymore.
His imagination seemed endless.
Different straps.
Different stitching.
Different shapes.
He even began carving tiny patterns into the leather.
Soon children who had once laughed at the barefoot orphans were asking:
“Paul… can you make me some?”
Paul charged them.
Not money.
Leather.
Thread.
Old tyres.
Anything useful.
His little workshop grew.
⸻
Then he became ambitious.
He decided the nuns needed shoes.
Sister Bernadette refused.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because I have perfectly good shoes.”
Paul looked down.
One shoe had a hole.
“Where?”
The kitchen erupted in laughter.
Eventually even Sister Bernadette surrendered.
Paul made her a sturdy black pair.
Then he attempted something daring.
A heel.
Nothing extravagant.
The nuns would have sent him directly to confession.
Just a modest little heel.
Sister Agnes tried them.
She took three steps.
Wobbled.
Grabbed the table.
And shouted:
“Paul! Are you trying to send me to meet Jesus early?”
The children screamed with laughter.
Paul went back to his workshop.
The second pair was better.
⸻
By his final year of high school, everyone knew Paul as the orphanage shoemaker.
And that was the year Sister Rebecca arrived.
She was young.
Beautiful.
Quiet.
Nothing like the formidable older nuns who had raised Paul.
She had a gentle way of listening that made people speak more softly around her.
When children misbehaved, she rarely shouted.
She simply looked at them.
Somehow that was worse.
Paul noticed her immediately.
He was ashamed of how much he noticed her.
He noticed how she tucked loose hair beneath her veil.
How she laughed with her hand near her mouth.
How she knelt to speak to the smallest children rather than towering over them.
He especially noticed that she never treated the orphanage children as unfortunate creatures who needed pity.
She treated them as though they mattered.
Paul’s feelings remained entirely private and innocent.
She was Sister Rebecca.
He was a schoolboy preparing to leave the mountain.
Nothing could come of it.
Still…
the heart sometimes begins writing stories long before life is ready to read them.
⸻
One afternoon Paul found Sister Rebecca examining a pair of shoes he had made for Angela.
“You made these?”
Paul suddenly forgot how language worked.
“Yes, Sister.”
She turned the shoe over.
“From what?”
“Cowhide. The sole is tyre rubber.”
She studied the stitching.
“Who taught you?”
“Nobody.”
Rebecca looked at him for several seconds.
“Then don’t waste this gift.”
Those six words stayed with Paul.
Don’t waste this gift.
He never did.
⸻
Around the same time, a new teacher at the village school, Mr Dube, noticed the unusual shoes worn by the orphanage children.
He asked questions.
Then he visited Paul’s tiny workshop.
He couldn’t believe what he saw.
Patterns drawn on old newspapers.
Leather hanging from beams.
Tools improvised from broken knives and pieces of metal.
Shoes made by a boy who had never received formal training.
Mr Dube took photographs.
Without telling Paul, he sent them to a design programme in the city.
Months later, a letter arrived.
Paul had been offered a place at a college specialising in leatherwork and footwear design.
There was even financial assistance.
Paul read the letter three times.
Then he ran.
Past the dormitories.
Past the chapel.
Past the kitchen.
He found Sister Rebecca hanging children’s washing.
“Sister!”
She turned.
Paul held up the letter.
“I’m going!”
Rebecca read it.
Her face lit up.
“I told you.”
“Told me what?”
“Not to waste it.”
Without thinking, Paul hugged her.
Then realised what he had done.
He jumped backwards.
“Sorry, Sister.”
Rebecca laughed.
“Go and pack, Paul.”
⸻
The city changed him.
College sharpened what instinct had begun.
Paul learned design.
Leather grading.
Pattern cutting.
Manufacturing.
Business.
Marketing.
After graduation, a large shoe company offered him an apprenticeship.
His designs began attracting attention.
He travelled.
He studied Italian leatherwork.
He learned from craftsmen who could tell the quality of leather simply by touching it.
Eventually he opened a small workshop.
Then a shop.
Then another.
Years passed.
The boy who once walked barefoot down a mountain became the owner of Moyo Leather Emporium, producing handmade luxury shoes sold in several countries.
Magazine articles called him a visionary.
People paid extraordinary amounts for shoes designed by the boy who once had none.
⸻
But Paul never forgot St Agnes.
Every holiday, his car climbed the winding mountain road.
He paid school fees.
Repaired dormitories.
Bought blankets.
And, naturally…
every child had shoes.
He employed Annie to manage one of his stores.
Angela became part of his design team.
Matt eventually ran logistics.
To Paul, they weren’t employees.
They were family.
But there was another reason he kept returning to the mountain.
A reason he never admitted.
Sister Rebecca.
⸻
As Paul grew older, his childhood admiration became something he tried very hard to bury.
He dated.
Beautiful women.
Educated women.
Successful women.
There was always something missing.
One girlfriend finally asked him:
“Who is she?”
Paul laughed.
“Who?”
“The woman you’re waiting for.”
“There isn’t one.”
She stared at him.
“There is always one.”
They separated soon afterwards.
Paul told himself it was ridiculous.
Sister Rebecca had chosen God.
That boundary was sacred.
He would never interfere with it.
So he loved her silently.
From a distance.
And every time he visited St Agnes, he brought gifts for everybody.
Books.
Food.
Clothes.
Equipment.
But Sister Rebecca always received the same thing.
Shoes.
Simple, elegant shoes.
Never romantic.
Never inappropriate.
Just shoes.
She always smiled.
“Another pair, Paul?”
“Quality control. I need somebody trustworthy to test them.”
“And conveniently I happen to be your size?”
Paul would grin.
“Providence.”
She would shake her head.
Neither said anything more.
⸻
Then one Christmas, Paul returned to St Agnes.
Sister Rebecca wasn’t there.
He tried to sound casual.
“Where is Sister Rebecca?”
Sister Bernadette looked at him.
“Transferred.”
Paul’s heart dropped.
“Where?”
“Another mission.”
“Which one?”
Sister Bernadette became strangely interested in peeling potatoes.
“Far away.”
Paul knew when he was being dismissed.
He left the kitchen.
That Christmas, surrounded by children, laughter and people who loved him…
Paul felt strangely empty.
⸻
Years passed.
He heard nothing about Rebecca.
His business continued growing.
Then his company received an invitation to sponsor a charity project helping young people leaving children’s homes learn practical trades.
Paul agreed immediately.
At the launch, he stood talking to journalists when he heard a woman’s voice behind him.
“Those are beautiful shoes.”
Paul froze.
He knew that voice.
He turned.
The woman standing before him wore an ordinary blue dress.
No habit.
No veil.
Her hair fell naturally around her shoulders.
Paul stared.
“Rebecca?”
She smiled.
“Hello, Paul.”
For perhaps the first time in his successful adult life…
Paul had absolutely nothing to say.
⸻
They sat in a quiet café afterwards.
Paul kept looking at her.
“You’re not…”
“A nun?”
He nodded.
Rebecca smiled.
“No.”
She explained that when Paul had known her, she had been a young religious sister still discerning her vocation. Years later, after much prayer and reflection, she realised that religious life was not where she was meant to remain.
She left peacefully.
She trained in social work.
Now she worked with children leaving institutional care.
Paul stared at his coffee.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Rebecca laughed.
“Why would they?”
“I don’t know.”
Then she leaned forward.
“Why didn’t you ever ask about me properly?”
Paul looked up.
“I did!”
“You asked nuns.”
“Who else was I supposed to ask?”
Rebecca laughed.
And suddenly they were young again.
The mountain.
The workshop.
The shoes.
⸻
Then Rebecca became serious.
“There’s something you don’t know.”
Paul waited.
“Mr Dube didn’t discover you by accident.”
Paul frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Rebecca reached into her handbag.
She removed an old photograph.
Paul recognised it immediately.
Four barefoot orphanage children standing outside St Agnes.
Paul.
Matt.
Annie.
Angela.
Then another photograph.
The same four children years later.
This time wearing Paul’s handmade shoes.
“Where did you get these?”
“I took them.”
Paul stared at her.
Rebecca continued.
“I showed your shoes to Mr Dube.”
Paul’s mouth opened.
“You?”
“I told him there was a boy on that mountain who could make something beautiful out of almost nothing.”
Mr Dube had taken it from there.
The college.
The scholarship.
Everything.
Paul sat back.
For years, he had believed Sister Rebecca’s only contribution had been six words.
Don’t waste this gift.
He had never known she had quietly opened the first door.
⸻
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rebecca smiled.
“Because then you might have thought you owed me something.”
Paul looked at her for a long time.
“Rebecca, I’ve spent half my life thinking I owed you something anyway.”
Her smile disappeared.
“What?”
Paul laughed nervously.
The wealthy businessman who negotiated multimillion-pound contracts suddenly looked like the barefoot schoolboy again.
“My heart.”
Rebecca looked down.
Silence.
Paul immediately regretted it.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”
“Paul.”
He stopped.
She looked at him.
“Do you know why I asked to be transferred from St Agnes?”
Paul shook his head.
Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because eventually you weren’t a schoolboy anymore.”
Paul stared at her.
“And every time you came home…”
She stopped.
“What?”
Rebecca laughed softly through her tears.
“I started looking forward to your visits far too much.”
Paul’s heart hammered.
“Rebecca…”
“I needed to understand whether I was struggling with my vocation because of you, or whether my path had genuinely changed.”
“And?”
She smiled.
“It took me years to answer that.”
Paul barely breathed.
“What was the answer?”
Rebecca looked directly at him.
“Both.”
🙆♀️
⸻
Paul laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes happiness arrives so unexpectedly that the body doesn’t know what else to do with it.
“So I spent all these years trying not to love you…”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow.
“Who told you to do that?”
“You were a nun!”
“That was a fairly good reason.”
They both burst out laughing.
Then Paul became serious.
“And now?”
Rebecca looked at him.
“Now I’m just Rebecca.”
Paul reached across the table.
Then stopped before touching her hand.
He had waited too many years to assume anything.
Rebecca looked at his hand.
Then gently placed hers inside it.
⸻
A year later, a wedding took place at the foot of the mountains.
Nothing extravagant.
Paul could have afforded extravagance.
He didn’t want it.
Annie stood beside Rebecca.
Angela cried before the ceremony even started.
Matt told everybody he wasn’t crying while wiping his eyes every five minutes.
Several elderly nuns from St Agnes sat proudly in the front row.
Sister Bernadette was among them.
Before the ceremony she pulled Paul aside.
“I have something for you.”
She handed him an old cardboard box.
Inside was a tiny pair of badly made leather shoes.
Paul stared.
His first pair.
Crooked stitching.
Uneven soles.
One heel slightly higher than the other.
Paul laughed.
“Where did you find these?”
“We keep important things.”
Then Sister Bernadette nodded towards Rebecca.
“Some things simply take longer to find their proper owner.”
⸻
Rebecca walked towards Paul wearing a simple ivory dress.
But Paul wasn’t looking at the dress.
He looked down.
And laughed.
Rebecca was wearing a pair of shoes he recognised.
Not the expensive bridal shoes his company had offered to make.
These were old.
Simple.
Handmade.
One of the first pairs Paul had ever made for her at St Agnes.
He whispered when she reached him:
“You kept them?”
Rebecca smiled.
“All these years.”
“Why?”
She squeezed his hand.
“Perhaps my heart knew before I did.”
Behind them stood the mountains where their story had begun.
The orphanage children who once walked barefoot had grown.
The boy who made shoes because poverty gave him no choice had built an empire from leather.
And the young woman he had once believed he could never have had found her own road back to him.
Paul had spent years believing success meant escaping the mountain.
Eventually he understood.
Sometimes success is being able to return to where you started…
and finding that what your heart wanted had been waiting somewhere along the road home.
THE END
❤️
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