The first thing Marcus Holloway noticed about the girl was her calm. Not her worn clothes, bare feet, or the cardboard sign that read Hungry. It was her eyes—steady, patient, unafraid. Marcus was a man whose name crowned buildings and hospital wings, yet none of that mattered now. Inside the hospital behind him lay his eight-year-old son, Julian, fading after two years of illness with no cure, only machines and quiet words like manage instead of heal.
When the girl softly said, “Feed me, and I’ll heal your son,” Marcus laughed in disbelief. He had heard every promise before. But when she described Julian’s nightly tears, his love of space books, and his fear of never turning nine, Marcus froze. She asked for nothing but food. Against reason and desperation, he fed her at the hospital café. She ate slowly, gratefully, as if each bite carried meaning.
