The air was warm, filled with the scent of roses, lilies, and freshly cut greenery. Everything looked peaceful… until I noticed the old man standing near the door.

He wore a worn-out but clean coat, neatly pressed trousers, and old shoes that had been carefully polished. He didn’t look homeless — just poor. But there was a quiet pride in the way he stood, a kind of dignity that no hardship could take away.

The young salesgirl behind the counter glanced at him with clear irritation.
— What are you doing here, old man? You’re blocking the customers!

He didn’t argue. His voice was soft, almost apologetic.
— I’m sorry, miss… may I ask, how much is one sprig of mimosa?

She rolled her eyes.
— Are you kidding? You don’t even have money. Why bother asking?

The old man slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out three crumpled ten-dollar bills.
— Perhaps… for thirty dollars… I could get something small?

The girl smirked, grabbed a nearly dead, broken stem from a bucket, and tossed it toward him.
— Here. Take it. Now, please leave.

He took the wilted flower with trembling hands, carefully trying to straighten the stem. And then I saw it — a single tear rolled down his cheek. There was something in that moment, something unbearably human.

I felt a tightness in my chest. Without thinking, I walked up to the counter.
— Excuse me, miss. Could you wrap the most expensive bouquet you have, please?

The girl’s face brightened immediately — fake smile, sugary voice.
— Of course, sir! This one here — seven hundred dollars.

I nodded, opened my wallet, and paused.
— Actually, no. Use that money to make the most beautiful bouquet you can… for that gentleman over there.

The entire shop went silent. The girl froze. The old man looked up, stunned.
— Sir, that’s not necessary…
— It is, — I said firmly. — Today, you’re the only one here who truly deserves flowers.

The girl blushed. She didn’t say a word, just started working — this time slowly, carefully. She picked out the freshest roses, the softest mimosa, some eucalyptus, tied it all with golden ribbon. When she finally handed it to him, her eyes were wet.

The old man took the bouquet gently, his hands shaking.
— Thank you… It’s been twenty years today since my wife passed away. Every year, I bring her a branch of mimosa. It was her favorite flower.

For a long moment, no one said a word. The air felt heavy — filled with something deeper than sadness.

Then, the man placed the bouquet on the counter, took out his three bills, and said softly:
— Please, take this. It’s all I have. But I can’t accept it for free.

The girl looked at him, tears now streaming down her face.
— I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to be cruel.

He smiled faintly and nodded.
— It’s all right, my dear. Just remember — kindness doesn’t cost anything.

And he left.

When I stepped outside a few minutes later, I saw him again — standing at the bus stop, holding the bouquet close to his chest. Snowflakes were falling onto his shoulders. He looked peaceful, almost radiant, as if the world had suddenly become a little softer.

I stood there, unable to move. That old man had reminded me of something we all tend to forget: the value of a human heart cannot be measured in money.

Sometimes, a single act of compassion can be worth more than all the riches in the world.