He froze.
A very small someone approached.
A chair scraped.
A breathy little effort.
Then a bright, crystal-clear voice broke through seven years of darkness:
—“Are you sitting alone?”
Eduardo turned his head toward the sound, startled. He didn’t know how to answer.
—“I’ll sit with you,” the little voice announced.
Another scrape.
Little legs climbing.
A triumphant sigh:
—“Okay. Done.”
Five simple words.
But they cracked a layer of silence that had grown around his heart like stone.
—“Who are you?” he asked.
—“Clara,” she said proudly. “I’m two. And you?”
—“Fifty-two.”
—“Whoa… so old.”
Then, sweetly:
“But it’s okay. My grandma is old too and I love her.”
Before he could react, hurried footsteps echoed in the hall.
—“Clara! Where did you—oh my God…”
The woman stopped cold at the sight:
Her toddler sitting beside the blind billionaire.
Tiny hands on the table.
Completely at ease.
—“I’m so sorry, Dr. Eduardo,” she stammered. “She slipped out while I was cleaning—Clara, get down right now—”
—“No.” The girl crossed her arms. “I’m eating dinner with him.”
—“Clara, please—”
—“Mommy, he’s ALONE! Nobody should eat alone. That’s very sad.”
The words hit Eduardo harder than any business crisis, harder than any pity whispered behind his back.
Seven years.
Seven years without anyone daring to sit with him.
Seven years without anyone pointing out the obvious truth:
He was living, but not alive.
Only a two-year-old had the courage to say it.
Eduardo lifted a hand gently.
—“It’s alright, Miss Joana,” he said, searching for her voice. “Let her stay.”
Joana froze.
—“Are… you sure, sir?”
—“Very sure. No one should eat alone. Right, Clara?”
The child beamed so brightly he could almost feel it.
—“Do you like potatoes?” he asked.
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