As they moved deeper into the shop, the transformation was immediate. The warmth vanished, replaced by harsh lights and the stench of dampness. At the end of a narrow corridor stood a locked door.
Michael opened it. The heat struck them first, then the sight. A small girl sat hunched over a sewing machine, hands moving with mechanical speed. Sweat soaked her hair. Her fingers were nicked and scarred. When she noticed them, she flinched violently.
“I’m almost done,” she cried in panic. “Please don’t be mad.”
Michael felt something inside him break.
“No one is angry,” he said gently. “What are you doing in here.”
Maya hesitated, then whispered the words she had been taught.
“They are helping me. I have to earn my place.”
Lillian stared at her hands, at the room, at the truth she had never imagined.
Footsteps echoed. Pauline and Ruth appeared, pale and defensive.
Michael did not raise his voice.
“This ends now,” he said.
When Rosa arrived later, summoned by a call that left no room for refusal, the truth collapsed onto her all at once. She held her daughter and wept, grief and rage consuming her.
Michael made arrangements immediately. Legal action. Protection. Support.