The girl nodded and slid a small envelope across the table. Her hands shook. “It’s all there. I counted it three times.”
Michael didn’t reach for it.
Instead, his gaze drifted back to the sewing machine. Old. Worn. Familiar. His grandmother had owned one just like it. He remembered sitting beneath her table, listening to the steady rhythm of the needle as she hummed. The memory hit harder than he expected.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Claire.”
“How old are you, Claire?”
“Nine,” she said. After a pause, she added, “Almost ten.”
He noticed her wrist. “What happened there?”
“The needle slipped,” she said. “I’m okay.”
He glanced toward the back room. “May I?”
Claire hesitated, then nodded.
The bedroom was dim. A woman lay beneath thin blankets, her skin pale, lips dry and cracked. She stirred weakly when Michael entered.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll pay. My daughter… she helps.”
Michael returned to the main room, his chest heavy. He typed a quick message on his phone, then slipped it back into his pocket.
“Claire,” he said, crouching so they were eye level. “Stop sewing.”
Her eyes widened. “I can’t—”
“You can,” he said gently. “Just for today.”