They paused near Bethesda Terrace, where a violinist was coaxing something mournful from his instrument, and Adrian adjusted the brim of his sunglasses, scanning the crowd not for opportunity but for threat, because grief has a way of turning even seasoned financiers into overprotective sentries.
That was when she appeared.
She couldn’t have been older than nine, barefoot despite the heat radiating off the pavement, her dark hair tangled in a way that suggested neither brush nor vanity had claimed it that morning, an oversized denim jacket swallowing her narrow shoulders, and yet her eyes were startlingly alive, the kind of gaze that refuses to shrink even when the world gives it reason to.
She walked directly toward Theo, not glancing at Adrian, not hesitating the way most strangers do when approaching visible vulnerability.
“Hi,” she said, as if they were classmates reunited after summer break.
Adrian stepped slightly in front of the wheelchair out of reflex. “We’re not interested in donations,” he said, the sentence polished by years of fending off opportunists.
She barely flicked her eyes toward him. “I didn’t ask for money.”
Theo, who had been silent for most of the morning, tilted his head.
The girl crouched so she was level with him. “You look like someone who forgot a song,” she said.
Adrian almost scoffed, the absurdity of it brushing up against his frayed patience. “We’re in the middle of therapy,” he replied, a statement that sounded more defensive than factual.
