She was no older than twelve. Barefoot. Thin. Wearing a dress so worn it had nearly lost its color. Her dark hair hung untamed across her face. At first glance she looked like the sort of child most of the city had trained itself not to see—a poor girl from the margins, one more invisible life moving through spaces built for other people.
Her name was Grace.
But there was something in her eyes that stopped Victor’s thoughts cold. They were dark, steady, and old in a way no child’s eyes should be.
Grace had been watching for some time.
She noticed things because children like her learned early that observation could mean survival. She had seen the contrast immediately—the wealthy little girl with the expensive doll and immaculate clothes, sitting in complete silence while the other children shouted around her. She had watched Sofia open her mouth, trying to imitate them, trying to shape the sounds she heard, only for nothing but breath to emerge.
Grace understood that kind of pain better than any well-dressed adult nearby.
With slow determination, she crossed the distance between them.