The grocery store aisles were unusually quiet for a Saturday morning. I stood by the dairy section, scanning for the cheapest gallon of milk when she approached, her voice barely above a whisper. « Excuse me, sir, » she said, and I turned to see a girl, no older than ten, clutching a thin, worn-out coat around her. Her shoes caught my eye—mismatched and too big, probably hand-me-downs. She asked if I could spare a little help for her brother. « A box of milk, » she added, eyes darting towards the exit. Her plea was simple, but the weight of her words lingered.
« What about your parents? » I asked, keeping my tone even. She hesitated, then shook her head. I felt a tightening in my chest. « Stay here, » I said quietly and walked towards the counter. The cashier raised an eyebrow as I paid for an extra carton. « You’re helping her? » she asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and concern.
« Yeah, » I replied, trying to process the small but significant impact of this encounter. I returned, handing the milk to the girl whose relief was palpable. « Thank you, » she murmured, already stepping away. My mind raced with questions, but I stayed silent, knowing this was just a glimpse into a larger story. I watched as she disappeared into the crowd, leaving me with more questions than answers.
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