The woman staggered slightly, as if the ground beneath her had shifted. Her glass slipped from her hand, shattering against the marble floor—but no one reacted. All eyes were on her now.
“That’s impossible…” she whispered.
The wealthy man who had mocked the girl straightened in his chair, his amusement fading. “Clara, what is this?” he asked, confused.
But Clara didn’t answer him.
She stepped closer to the girl, her heels echoing against the stone, her composure unraveling with each step.
“How old are you?” she asked, her voice barely steady.
“Eight,” the girl replied quietly.
Clara’s breath caught.
Eight years.
Eight years since Anna had disappeared.
Eight years since everything had fallen apart.
“Where is your mother now?” Clara pressed, her eyes searching the child’s face for something—anything.
The girl looked down, gripping the flute tighter.
“She’s… she’s sleeping most of the time now. She doesn’t wake up much. We don’t have money for medicine anymore.”
A murmur spread across the terrace.
Clara’s heart pounded violently in her chest. “Where are you staying?” she asked urgently.
The girl pointed vaguely toward the darker end of the street. “Near the old buildings… the ones nobody uses.”
Clara turned sharply to the man at the table. “We need to go. Now.”
“Clara, you’re overreacting—”
“No,” she snapped, her voice breaking for the first time. “You don’t understand. Anna was my sister.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
The terrace no longer felt like a place of luxury. It felt like a stage where something far more real had just been uncovered.
Clara dropped to her knees in front of the girl, her eyes filled with tears.
“What’s your name?” she asked softly.
“…Lily.”
Clara nodded slowly, as if anchoring herself to the moment.
“Lily… I’m going to help you. Okay?”
The girl didn’t respond right away.
She just looked at her.
Like she didn’t quite believe her.
Like promises were something she had learned not to trust.
But then, slowly—
She nodded.
