He nodded slowly. There was something about her that intrigued him—more than her beauty. It was her stillness, her kindness. A quiet strength.
But he didn’t pry. Not yet.
One evening, Alexander came home later than usual. He found Lila in the library, curled up with one of his father’s old novels.
“You read Dostoevsky?” he asked, surprised.
She looked up. “I read everything I can get my hands on.”
He sat across from her. “You know, I keep wondering—why were you on that street corner that day?”
She hesitated. Then set the book down.
“My mother passed from cancer when I was sixteen. My stepfather… wasn’t kind. I left home at seventeen. Got a job, made it work for a while. But when the restaurant closed during the pandemic, I lost everything. I couch-surfed, then shelters, then the streets. No drugs. No bad habits. Just bad luck.”
She looked him in the eye, steady. “But I never gave up hope.”
Alexander didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said softly, “Thank you for telling me.”
From that day forward, something changed between them. They shared meals. Took walks with Mr. Hayes in the garden. Sometimes Alexander would find Lila humming while she watered the plants, and he found himself pausing just to listen.
