Valeria was carrying a bill in one hand and a water pitcher in the other. A customer at table eight had already clicked his tongue twice in irritation.
Still, she stopped.
She leaned slightly so as not to expose the woman.
“Are you alright, ma’am?”
The woman looked up. Her eyes were tired, yes — but strong.
“I have Parkinson’s, daughter,” she said softly. “Some days, eating becomes a battle.”
Valeria’s chest tightened — not from pity, but from memory. Her grandmother had trembled the same way before she died. She remembered those hands struggling with a cup, the quiet humiliation of needing help for something so basic.
“Wait a moment,” Valeria said gently. “I’ll bring something easier.”
Four minutes later she returned with hot soup.
While other customers complained about delays, Valeria pulled up a chair and sat beside her.
