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.
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.
“Stop,” Diego said suddenly.
The word came out rough, unfamiliar in his throat.
The driver glanced at him through the mirror.
“Sir… it’s raining heavily.”
“Stop.”
Before the driver could open his door, Diego was already stepping out into the downpour. Rain hit him like a wall—cold, heavy, immediate. His tailored jacket darkened in seconds, water slipping down his collar, soaking his shirt. He felt none of it.
He moved toward the girl slowly, deliberately, stripping his posture of authority, his voice of command. He didn’t want to scare her.
She noticed him and stopped. Her shoulders stiffened. Those eyes—large, brown, alert—looked up at him with the instinctive caution of someone who had learned early that the world doesn’t always offer kindness for free.
“Are you selling bread?” Diego asked quietly.
The girl hesitated, then nodded. With careful fingers, she lifted the edge of the cloth. Inside were rolls, shells, small loaves—still warm, steam faintly visible despite the rain. She had wrapped them with care, as if they were fragile.
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