Minutes later, Rafi sat at a long oak table big enough to host a royal banquet. Food covered every inch—roasted chicken, warm bread, fruit so bright it looked painted, silver bowls of steaming soup.
He didn’t move.
His hands shook so hard he was afraid he’d knock something over and ruin everything.
“Go ahead,” Alexander said, standing at the far end of the table. “Eat.”
Rafi looked down. “Sir… this is for rich people.”
Alexander’s expression softened for the first time. “Then consider yourself rich tonight.”
Rafi’s lip trembled. He reached out, tore off a small piece of bread, and put it in his mouth.
And then another.
And another.
He ate like someone trying to apologize for being hungry.
When he finally looked up, Alexander was still standing there, arms crossed, eyes thoughtful.
“Where are your parents, Rafi?” he asked quietly.
Rafi stopped chewing.
The air changed.
He swallowed hard, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t got any,” he said flatly. “At least not ones who wanted me.”
Alexander nodded slowly. “How long have you been on the streets?”
“Since I can remember.”
“And no one’s ever… helped you?”
Rafi looked down. “People help for a day. Then they forget. Or they say I steal, even when I don’t. I stopped asking.”
Alexander was silent for a long time. Then he said, “You’re not asking now.”
Rafi frowned. “Sir?”
“You didn’t ask for anything. Not even when I offered.”
Rafi shrugged. “Didn’t seem right. You already gave me enough.”
Alexander studied the boy as if trying to understand something far bigger than him. He had spent years surrounded by people who wanted things—money, favors, access, power. This boy had nothing and still refused to take.
It unsettled him.
It humbled him.
A FATHER’S GUILT
Upstairs, the baby slept peacefully in his crib, clutching a small toy elephant. The nanny’s quarters were empty now—she’d been dismissed before the car even left the alley.
Alexander stood in the nursery doorway for a long time, watching his son breathe, listening to the quiet hum of the baby monitor.
His wife, Claire, stood behind him, arms folded tightly.
“You brought that boy here?” she asked in disbelief.
“He saved Andrew,” Alexander said simply.
“He’s filthy. He could have hurt him—”
“But he didn’t,” Alexander interrupted. “He was the only one who didn’t.”
Claire looked away, her jaw set. “He can’t stay.”
“He will,” Alexander said, his tone final. “At least for now.”
She turned, eyes wide. “Why? You barely know him.”
“Because our son does.”
THE MORNING AFTER
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