But there was one thing money had never returned to him.
Loss leaves a specific mark. Not visible, but unmistakable. It lived behind his eyes, in the way his gaze lingered too long on strangers, in the way his chest tightened when he saw young couples laughing, when he passed playgrounds, when someone mentioned names he no longer heard spoken.
The traffic light ahead glowed red. The driver slowed to a stop.
Diego barely noticed.
Then he saw her.
On the flooded sidewalk, a barefoot girl pushed forward against the rain. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Her dress was too thin for the weather, clinging to her knees, darkened by water. Her hair—long, black, heavy with rain—stuck to her cheeks and neck. She bent her body slightly, shielding a woven basket pressed to her chest, covered by a white cloth already soaked through.
She walked as if stopping wasn’t an option.
As if whatever she carried mattered more than warmth, more than pain, more than the storm itself.
