It wasn’t loud. It was a muffled, ancient kind of grief. He could’ve kept walking—he had a thousand times before. But something, maybe Helena’s voice buried deep, made him stop.
The sound came from a narrow alley. Dim light. Thick air. And at the very end, he saw her.
A girl, about eight. Hair stuck to her forehead, face streaked with dirt and tears, her clothes patched together, bare feet bruised.
In her arms lay a toddler, limp like a broken doll.
The baby’s skin was pale, lips cracked, body frighteningly still. The heat outside only made the coldness of that child more unreal.
The girl lifted her head. Her dark eyes held fear, fatigue, and a fragile kind of dignity.
“Sir…” she whispered. “Can you bury my sister? She hasn’t woken up. She’s so cold… I don’t have money, but when I grow up, I’ll work and pay you back.”
The world fell silent.
Alexander felt something punch through his chest—Helena in the hospital, the helplessness, the machines. He looked for an adult. None. Just the alley and that child clinging to hope.
He knelt beside her, not caring about his expensive suit. He touched the baby’s neck—cold as ice. He pressed gently, searching for a pulse that felt impossible.