She didn’t hold out a cup. She didn’t ask for spare change. Her clothes were worn, her sneakers too thin for the season, but her posture was steady. Her eyes were serious — far older than her small frame suggested.
“Sir,” she said gently, “you’re not sick the way they tell you.”
He frowned. Powerful men did not take medical opinions from children on the street.
“Excuse me?” he replied coolly.
“Someone at home is making you weak. A little at a time.”
His jaw tightened. Was this a setup? A prank for social media? People always wanted something from him.
“Where are your parents?” he asked, deflecting.
“It’s your wife,” she continued. “She mixes something into your food every day.”
For a moment, the sounds of the park disappeared. The wind stilled. Even his heartbeat seemed to hesitate.
Images rushed into his mind: the way his weakness always followed dinner. Her insistence on preparing his meals herself. The way she hovered when he took his medication. The sweetness in her voice that sometimes felt… rehearsed.
“Why would you say that?” he asked, forcing calm into his tone.
“I used to clear tables at the café near your house,” she said. “I’ve seen things rich people think nobody notices.”