Something twisted sharply in his chest.
His eyes moved back to the sewing machine, to the fabric still resting beneath the needle.
“And who’s doing all this sewing?”
The girl walked over, climbed onto the chair, and sat in front of the machine. Her feet barely reached the pedal.
“I am,” she said simply. “I have to finish twenty-four pillowcases today. The lady at the shop pays me thirty cents each.”
Ethan didn’t speak.
Thirty cents.
His gaze dropped to her hands—tiny fingers covered in needle marks. Some wrapped in old bandages. Others dotted with dried blood.
“And why do you need the money?” he asked, his voice tight.
She stood, walked to the refrigerator, and reached for a small shoebox on top. From it, she pulled out a wrinkled envelope and handed it to him carefully.
“It’s for you,” she said. “The rent. My mom says she’s sorry… we’re almost done saving.”
Ethan took the envelope. It was nearly weightless. Inside were a few small bills and a handful of coins. Not even close to what was owed.
He looked at her again.
And something inside him broke.