It was an ordinary morning in the small bakery where I worked — the kind of day that smelled of warm bread and quiet routine. I was wiping down the counter when the doorbell chimed, and a young woman stepped inside, soaked from the rain. Her clothes were worn, her eyes tired, and one hand rested protectively on her rounded belly.
“Please,” she whispered. “I just need a little bread. I don’t have any money, but I’m hungry.”
For a moment, I hesitated. The owner had made it clear: no handouts, no exceptions. But something in her voice — gentle, trembling, desperate — made the decision for me. I wrapped a fresh loaf, still warm from the oven, and handed it to her.
Her eyes filled with tears. Then, reaching up, she removed a small hairpin from her hair and pressed it into my hand. “You’ll need this one day,” she said softly.
Before I could protest, she was gone.
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