The stairs creaked as she dragged her cart up one step at a time. Inside, the air smelled like medicine, damp blankets, and something slowly fading away.
Her mother lay on the bed by the window—too weak to move, too tired to hide the pain.
Ava climbed beside her and pulled the blanket up gently.
“I found more bottles today,” she said.
Her mother smiled anyway.
Ava unfolded the prescription carefully.
“I’ll get your medicine tomorrow,” she promised.
She always said that.
Even when she didn’t know how.
That night, after her mother fell asleep, Ava slipped outside again.
She found half a sandwich in a trash bin. Cold. Hard around the edges.
She took a small bite.
Then wrapped the rest.
“For Mom,” she whispered.
The next morning, Ava walked farther than she ever had before.
Past the familiar streets.
Past the places where people sometimes dropped coins without looking at her.
That day… she went to the dump.
Mountains of trash rose like broken hills.
That’s where she saw it.
A black suitcase.
Too clean. Too perfect to belong there.
Her heart started pounding.
She dragged it out of the slush.
It was heavy.
Very heavy.
“Maybe it’s empty,” she whispered.
She opened it.
And froze.
Stacks of money.