“Grace Parker. But Grandma Evelyn calls me Gracie. We live right over there.”
She pointed toward a narrow side street Alex had passed hundreds of times without noticing—a thin crack between steel and marble buildings.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said quietly. “And maybe I can help your grandmother out.”
Gracie shook her head with solemn seriousness.
“You don’t have to give money. I promised Grandma I would pray for people who look lonely. You’re number nine today.”
Number nine.
He felt something in his chest twist painfully. When was the last time anyone noticed his loneliness without wanting something in return?
They walked down the narrow street together. The sounds of Manhattan faded into softer ones—laughter, a radio playing old music, the clatter of dishes. Hidden behind the corporate skyline was a small community of aging brick apartments and modest storefronts. Laundry fluttered between fire escapes. Children chased a dented soccer ball.
A different world.
Gracie stopped in front of a pale yellow building with chipped paint.
“Here.”