She barely noticed the world anymore. Success had made her efficient, not compassionate.
That night, though, something unusual happened.
The voice was soft, hesitant. Margaret looked up, irritated — and froze.
Two boys stood by her table, maybe 9 and 11 years old. Their clothes were tattered, their faces smudged with dirt, and their eyes — impossibly large and tired — told stories no child should have to live.
“Can we have… your leftovers?” the older one asked.
The restaurant fell silent. Diners stared, offended that street kids had entered this sacred temple of wealth. A waiter rushed over.
