A small voice pierced the fog of her pain.
—Sir… are you also crying because you are hungry?
Sebastian lowered his gaze and remained motionless, as if he didn’t know if he was hearing a child or a hallucination.
In front of him stood a little girl, no more than seven years old, with huge, serious dark eyes, and her face stained with dirt.
She had uneven braids that framed her cheeks, and a huge sweater hung off her small shoulders like a blanket borrowed from the world.
He handed her a half-eaten piece of bread, wrapped in a crumpled napkin, with a solemnity that was painful.
“You can keep it,” the girl said seriously. “I know what it feels like to have a stomachache from not eating.”
Shame hit Sebastian like a punch, because he, surrounded by luxury, was receiving food from a girl who had nothing.
“No,” he replied softly, wiping his face. “I’m not hungry. I’m crying because I miss my son, and I haven’t seen him for a year.”
The little girl nodded as if she understood perfectly, as if that phrase belonged to her too.
