A woman sat under a bare maple tree near the cart return. No coat. Hands trembling. Eyes fixed on the concrete. People walked past, pretending not to notice. Something inside me tightened.
Marla’s voice nudged me: Do something good, honey.
“I’m not here to bother you,” I said softly. “You just look cold.”
Her eyes flicked up—tired, wary. I slipped off my jacket and held it out.
“You need this more than I do.”
She didn’t thank me at first. She just clutched the jacket like it might disappear. I handed her a grocery bag, scribbled my address on the pie box, and murmured, “If you need help, I’m Eric.”
A tiny whispered thank you and I walked away. That night, I lied to Sarah over video, pretending I’d eaten a proper meal. But I couldn’t stop wondering—was she warm? Did she have somewhere safe to go? Eventually, I told myself I had done enough.
Two years passed.
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