“Where did you steal this?” Tristan demanded, waving the card like evidence. “You expect me to believe a kid from the streets has this?”
“I didn’t steal it,” Eliot said. “It’s mine. My grandma…”
Tristan rolled the card across the counter with disdain. “Sit over there. Don’t move. Don’t speak. I’m calling headquarters to verify this nonsense.”
Alone in the corner, Eliot opened his grandmother’s letter. My brave Eliot, never let anyone make you feel small. You are worth more than they will ever know. Each word fortified him, a reminder of love and resilience in a room filled with scorn. His phone buzzed. Uncle Rafael Moreno. Stuck in a meeting. Be there soon. You’re doing great, champ.
Time crept by. Twenty minutes, thirty. Eliot watched customers glide past, receiving smiles and service, the rich moving freely while he remained unseen. Some eyes flickered his way, but none offered help. Dahlia Kane, an older woman, paused briefly, guilt flickering in her eyes, then left. Eliot hugged the letter, letting its words anchor him.