But Jamal did not smile. He did not bask in praise. On the contrary, his small shoulders slumped and tears welled up in his eyes.
« What’s wrong? » Grant asked quietly.
The boy’s voice broke. « Because it always happens. People see what I can do, and then they stop seeing me. »
The room fell silent again, but for a completely different reason.
Jamal told his story in broken words. His mother had died when he was little. A foster family had taken him in, not out of love, but because they had discovered his extraordinary gift for numbers. He was paraded around like a trophy, forced to solve problems, to participate in competitions, to bring them money. He was never hugged, never tucked in—he was only praised when he « performed. »
« I wasn’t their child, » Jamal whispered. « I was their calculating machine. »
One day, he ran away. With only his bag and notebook as possessions, he chose the street rather than a house where he was just a tool.
When he had finished, tears streamed down his cheeks. The powerful people who, just minutes before, had mocked him, remained frozen, ashamed.
Something shifted deep within Grant. For years, he had lived surrounded by brilliance, ambition, and greed. Yet, the boy’s pain cut deeper than any failure. He didn’t see a genius. He saw a child, lost, thirsting for something far more than numbers.
« Jamal, » Grant said gently, « you have nothing else to fix today. Not this project. Not the world. You simply deserve to be a child. »
For the first time, Jamal looked at him with a glimmer of hope—as if, perhaps, someone finally saw him.
In the weeks that followed, Richard Grant kept his word. He didn’t hire Jamal, nor did he expose him to the press. He offered him what no one had ever given him: security.
Jamal settled into a small guest house on Grant’s estate. There was food in the kitchen, warm clothes folded on the bed and—most surprising of all—a door that locked from the inside, a space of his own, just for him.
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