His charcoal suit was tailored to perfection, his silk tie sat flawlessly at his collar, and his phone vibrated nonstop with congratulatory messages—another acquisition secured, another seven-figure deal signed, another headline praising his brilliance.
He crossed Fifth Avenue like someone untouchable.
And yet, beneath the polish, there it was again—that hollow space inside his chest. A quiet, airless room no success could furnish. The city thundered around him—taxis honking, vendors shouting, heels striking pavement—but Alex moved as if separated from it all by thick glass.
That was when a tiny hand brushed his sleeve.
He stopped, irritated at first. In front of him stood a little girl, maybe five years old. Tangled curls framed her face, her oversized T-shirt hung past her knees, and her sneakers were worn nearly through. But her eyes—clear, steady, unafraid—held his.
“You look sad,” she said gently.
Alex gave a short, automatic laugh. The kind meant to deflect.
“Sad? I’m doing just fine. What would you know about that, kid? Where are your parents?”
She didn’t step back. She didn’t ask for money.
Instead, she folded her small hands together and closed her eyes.
“Can I pray for you?”