Nobody paid attention to the forgotten elderly woman, until a young Black teen gently clasped her hand. She turned out to be a billionaire…

But deeper still was the heaviness that lived in his chest, the kind that came not from physical strain, but from too many days balancing survival on a wire. When he did finally rise, it was without complaint. He folded the blanket with care, tucked it against the wall, and moved quietly toward the front of the store, the rubber soles of his shoes silent on the linoleum floor.

Mr. Johnson was already there, as always, opening up with the stoic routine of a man who had long ago learned that consistency was its own kind of faith. He grunted when he saw André, then pushed a banana and a half-warmed cup of coffee toward him, no words, just quiet acknowledgment, the kind that meant more than conversation. André took the banana with a quiet thanks, peeled it slowly, and stood by the window, watching as the town exhaled into motion.

Steam rose from the hoods of parked cars, children shuffled along sidewalks clutching their backpacks, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked once and then was silent. It was just another day, another morning that looked like all the ones before it, until the black car pulled up. It was the kind of car that didn’t belong on these streets, too polished, too quiet, gliding into the curb like it was answering a summons.

The man who stepped out was tall and lean, his coat too fine for a town like this, his shoes unscuffed, his posture deliberate. He glanced at a slip of paper in his hand, then looked directly through the store window, his eyes landing on André like he had always known where to find him. When the bell over the door chimed and the man stepped in, the room seemed to shrink around him.

«‘Excuse me,’ he said, his voice smooth but with a weight beneath it. «‘I’m looking for someone named André.’ André turned from the window, frozen for just a breath. «‘That’s me,’ he said cautiously.

The man’s expression softened with relief. «‘Miss Evelyn Rose sent me,’ he said. «‘She asked me to find you.

She remembers everything. And she wants to thank you. She insisted.’ Mr. Johnson paused mid-sip of his coffee but said nothing.

André looked at the man, then down at the receipt in his hand, his own handwriting, the number he’d scrawled before riding off into the dark. It hadn’t been meant for anything more than a lifeline. He never expected it to be used.

Charles, as he introduced himself, held the door open, gesturing to the car. «‘She’s waiting, if you’re willing.’ André hesitated, something flickering behind his eyes. The idea of going back to that house, of stepping into a world that didn’t belong to him, felt like standing barefoot at the edge of a polished ballroom floor.

He was just a delivery boy with no place to sleep, no family, no finish line. He had done what was right. That was all…