It was an ordinary morning in the small bakery where I worked — the kind of day that smelled of warm bread and quiet routine. I was wiping down the counter when the doorbell chimed, and a young woman stepped inside, soaked from the rain. Her clothes were worn, her eyes tired, and one hand rested protectively on her rounded belly.
“Please,” she whispered. “I just need a little bread. I don’t have any money, but I’m hungry.”
