The restaurant was the kind of place where silence itself felt expensive. Crystal glasses lined white tablecloths, soft music floated through the air, and the scent of perfectly plated dishes lingered long after they were served. People didn’t come here just to eat; they came to be seen. Among them sat Victor Harrington, a self-made millionaire known for his sharp tongue, tailored suits, and complete indifference toward anyone outside his circle.
Victor pushed his plate away with a sigh of dissatisfaction. The food was untouched—an elaborate dish of roasted lamb, truffle sauce, and imported vegetables that cost more than most people earned in a week. He glanced at his watch, already bored, already thinking about his next meeting.
“Take it away,” he said curtly to the waiter. “It’s cold.”
The waiter hesitated. “Sir, would you like it wrapped to go?”
Victor scoffed. “Why would I eat leftovers?”
As the waiter reached for the plate, a small voice interrupted.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Victor turned, irritated. Standing a few feet away was a girl no older than ten. She was thin, her coat too big for her frame, her shoes worn at the edges. Her hair was neatly braided, though it was clear she hadn’t eaten well in some time. She held herself with an odd mix of shyness and determination.
Victor frowned. “Where are your parents?” he asked sharply.
The girl swallowed. “I’m waiting outside. But I saw your food.”
The waiter stiffened, unsure what to do.
Victor’s lips curled into a smirk. “You want leftovers?” he asked, amused. “Is that it?”
The girl nodded slowly. “Yes. But… I wanted to offer you something first.”
That made Victor laugh. Not a cruel laugh, but a dismissive one, the kind that came naturally to people who had never lacked anything. “Offer me something?” he repeated. “What could you possibly have that I’d want?”
The girl reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. Inside was a clear liquid, barely noticeable unless the light hit it just right.
“It’s a cure,” she said softly.
Victor laughed harder this time. Nearby diners glanced over, curious.
“A cure for what?” he asked mockingly. “Bad manners? Poverty?”
The girl didn’t flinch. “For pain,” she replied. “For the kind that doesn’t show up on tests.”
Victor stopped laughing, if only for a moment. “You expect me to believe that?” he said. “You think I’ll trade a meal for some nonsense in a bottle?”
“It’s not a trade,” the girl said quickly. “You can keep it. I just hoped you’d listen.”
Victor waved his hand dismissively. “This is ridiculous.”
But something in her eyes—steady, earnest, unafraid—made him pause. Against his better judgment, he gestured toward the empty chair across from him.
“Fine,” he said. “You have one minute.”
The girl sat carefully, placing the vial on the table. “My name is Lina,” she began. “My mother used to work in a hospital. She wasn’t a doctor, but she listened. She learned things from people who didn’t have much, but knew a lot.”
Victor raised an eyebrow. “This is going nowhere.”
“My mother said pain isn’t always in the body,” Lina continued. “Sometimes it’s in the memories. In the fear. She learned how certain plants, certain routines, and certain words can calm the nervous system. She taught me.”
Victor leaned back. “So now you’re selling snake oil?”
Lina shook her head. “No. I don’t sell it. I give it to people who look like they’re hurting.”
That made him laugh again. “And I look like I’m hurting?”
“I know you didn’t eat,” she said. “I know you pushed the plate away like it didn’t matter. And I know you laughed because it’s easier than explaining why you’re tired.”
The waiter shifted uncomfortably. The surrounding tables had gone quiet.
Victor’s smile faded. “Enough,” he said sharply. “This conversation is over.”
Lina nodded. “That’s okay.”
She slid the vial closer to him. “You don’t have to use it. Just… smell it. When you’re alone.”
Victor stared at it, annoyed that he even considered her request. Finally, he stood.
“Take the food,” he said abruptly to the waiter. “Give it to her.”
Lina’s eyes widened. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Victor grabbed his coat, already regretting the delay. As he walked toward the door, laughter bubbled up again. “A cure,” he muttered to himself. “Unbelievable.”
That night, alone in his penthouse, Victor found himself staring at the vial. He didn’t know why he’d kept it. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps guilt. Or perhaps something else he refused to name.
