The ballroom of the Grand Astoria Hotel glittered with soft amber light. Crystal chandeliers swayed gently above polished marble floors, reflecting the shimmer of gold gowns and black tuxedos. It was the annual “Voices of Tomorrow” gala, a charity event meant to raise funds for disadvantaged children. Ironically, no one in attendance had ever known what it meant to go without.
Except for Lydia Hart.
At twelve years old, Lydia had been living on the streets of Boston for nearly a year. Her mother had passed away from pneumonia one winter night, and her father had disappeared long before that. With no one left, she survived by scavenging leftovers behind diners and sleeping under the shelter of closed shop awnings.
That evening, as snow drifted along the sidewalks, Lydia followed the scent of roasted meat and baked bread to the glittering entrance of the Grand Astoria. Her feet were bare, her jeans torn, her hair tangled by the wind. In her backpack she kept only a photograph of her mother and a broken pencil stub.
The hotel guard spotted her as she slipped through the revolving door. “You can’t come in here, kid,” he said sharply.