The rain had trailed Daniel Brooks all the way from downtown, streaking across his windshield as though it were trying to scrub something from him. He barely noticed. Weather rarely bothered him. Rent collection was mechanical—figures, signatures, brief nods of courtesy.
He owned the building: a weary three-story walk-up on the outskirts of town, leaning just shy of collapse. He kept it because his financial advisor called it “recession-proof,” which was a gentler way of saying its tenants had nowhere else to go.
Daniel stepped into the narrow hallway. The air was heavy with dampness, oil, and dust that never quite settled. He checked his phone. Apartment 3C was the last stop. He knocked once—firm, practiced.
No response.
He knocked again.
This time, the door opened slightly.
Sunlight slipped through a cracked window and spilled across a scarred wooden table. Sitting there was a little girl—no older than nine or ten—bent over an aging sewing machine. Her hair was knotted, her face smudged with dirt. A strip of cloth was tied around her wrist, darkened where blood had soaked through. The machine clattered loudly each time she pressed the pedal.
Daniel stopped cold.
The girl didn’t look up. Her fingers guided a piece of faded blue fabric under the needle with careful precision, her jaw clenched in focus that looked far too heavy for her small frame.
