“I know,” he replied quietly. “I have everything money can buy. And no one to leave it to.”
She studied him, then simply nodded and led him outside.
The courtyard was alive with noise—children laughing, running, calling out. A world that felt distant from his own.
And then he saw her.
In the far corner, beneath a small tree, a girl knelt over a row of tin cans filled with soil. She watered them carefully, her focus absolute, as if nothing else existed.
“Who is she?” Theo asked.
“Her name is Maya Carter,” Sister Margaret said softly. “She’s been here three years. Very bright. Very… observant. But she doesn’t open up easily. Families try, but she senses things. She pulls away.”
“Can I talk to her?”
When they approached, Maya looked up.
She didn’t smile.
She studied him.
“You’re sick,” she said simply.
Theo blinked.
“How do you know?”
“The way you stand. And your eyes,” she said. “They’re not just tired. They’re… heavy.”
Sister Margaret started to correct her, but Theo raised a hand.
“She’s right.”
Maya nodded, as if that settled it.
“Do you want to see my garden?”
For the next half hour, she showed him every small plant—mint, chamomile, basil, tiny tomatoes—explaining what each one did.