The grocery store aisles were unusually quiet for a Saturday morning. I stood by the dairy section, scanning for the cheapest gallon of milk when she approached, her voice barely above a whisper. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, and I turned to see a girl, no older than ten, clutching a thin, worn-out coat around her. Her shoes caught my eye—mismatched and too big, probably hand-me-downs. She asked if I could spare a little help for her brother. “A box of milk,” she added, eyes darting towards the exit. Her plea was simple, but the weight of her words lingered.
“What about your parents?” I asked, keeping my tone even. She hesitated, then shook her head. I felt a tightening in my chest. “Stay here,” I said quietly and walked towards the counter. The cashier raised an eyebrow as I paid for an extra carton. “You’re helping her?” she asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and concern.
“Yeah,” I replied, trying to process the small but significant impact of this encounter. I returned, handing the milk to the girl whose relief was palpable. “Thank you,” she murmured, already stepping away. My mind raced with questions, but I stayed silent, knowing this was just a glimpse into a larger story. I watched as she disappeared into the crowd, leaving me with more questions than answers.
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