A server brought a clean plate, setting it down with a mixture of confusion and awe. David cut a generous slice of his ribeye and placed it on Lily’s plate. She stared at the meat as though it were a painting in a museum — something meant to be admired, not touched.
“You can eat,” he encouraged.
Lily hesitated, then picked up the fork. But instead of diving in, she whispered, “Can I… can I save half for my mom? She hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”
David’s chest tightened. The restaurant suddenly felt too small, too bright, too full of people pretending they didn’t hear.
“You eat first,” he said softly. “We’ll order something for your mom too.”
She nodded gratefully and took her first bite. The moment the food touched her tongue, her shoulders dropped — a wave of relief washing through her. She ate slowly, savoring each piece as if memorizing it.
“Do you come here often?” he asked lightly.
Lily shook her head. “No. I just… I walk around sometimes when I’m scared at night. It feels safe here. Bright lights. People inside. Warm windows.”
David felt a familiar ache — the ache of recognition.
Because once, many years ago, he had been a wandering kid too. Not homeless, but fatherless. Invisible to the world except when he made a mistake.
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