She nodded once and walked back into the storm.
But Trevor stood there for a long moment, staring into the rain. Something about her wouldn’t leave him.
He hadn’t planned to follow her. Not exactly. But his feet moved before his thoughts could catch up. Keeping a safe distance, Trevor tailed Clara through narrow streets and alleyways, past shuttered storefronts and graffiti-covered walls.
After about ten minutes, she turned down a dead-end lane and disappeared behind an old warehouse near the highway.
He hesitated, then approached quietly.
Peeking through a crack in the wall, he saw a dim orange glow. Inside, six people huddled around a battery lantern: three adults and three children, their shadows flickering on the damp concrete walls.
Clara sat in the middle, unpacking the bag with practiced care. She sliced the chicken into portions, spooned polenta into cracked bowls, and divided the pie like a sacred ritual.
She didn’t eat until the others had taken their share.
Trevor stepped back, a lump in his throat. He’d built restaurants for people who debated the nuances of truffle foam. Yet here, in silence and candlelight, he saw more reverence for food than in any fine dining room.
He didn’t sleep much that night.
