The morning sun cast long shadows across the pristine marble steps of Wellington Industries, where seven-year-old Emma clutched a worn grocery bag filled with her most precious possessions. Her tiny fingers trembled as she arranged the toys on a faded pink blanket.
A one-eyed teddy bear named Mr. Buttons, her favourite princess doll with tangled hair, and three plastic dinosaurs that once roared with battery-powered sounds. Please. Somebody buy something, she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible above the bustling sounds of downtown Chicago’s business district.
The little girl’s brown eyes, far too serious for someone her age, darted nervously between the imposing glass doors of the corporate building and the steady stream of suited professionals hurrying past. Emma had chosen this spot carefully. Mama always said rich people worked in the tall, shiny buildings, and this was the tallest, shiniest one she could find.
She’d walked twelve blocks from their tiny apartment, carrying the heavy bag and blanket, driven by a desperation that no child should ever feel. My mummy is very sick, she practised saying, the words catching in her throat. She needs medicine and I have the best toys.
Please. Inside the towering building, Marcus Wellington stood at his corner office window on the 42nd floor, his steel-grey eyes scanning quarterly reports while his mind wandered to the upcoming board meeting. At 53, he commanded one of the largest construction empires in the Midwest, his every decision affecting thousands of employees and millions in revenue.
The weight of responsibility sat on his broad shoulders like an expensive suit, familiar, necessary, and sometimes suffocating. A movement far below caught his attention. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows he spotted something unusual on the steps of his building, a small figure in a faded yellow dress, sitting alone among what appeared to be toys.
Marcus frowned, reaching for his desk phone to call security, but something made him pause. The child, for he could see now it was definitely a child, was speaking earnestly to every passerby, holding up items with an urgency that was palpable even from 42 floors up. Most people hurried past without stopping, but a few paused briefly before shaking their heads and continuing on their way.
Marcus set down his phone and grabbed his suit jacket. «‘Margaret, cancel my ten o’clock,’ he called to his assistant as he strode toward the elevator. «‘I’ll be back shortly.’ The ride down felt endless.
Marcus found himself thinking about his own daughter safely tucked away in her private school across town, her biggest worry being which activities to choose for summer camp. The contrast wasn’t lost on him as the elevator dinged softly at the ground floor. Emma looked up as polished black shoes stopped directly in front of her blanket.
Her gaze travelled up expensive charcoal pants, past a crisp white shirt and silk tie, finally landing on the face of a man who looked like he belonged in the movies, stern but not unkind, with greying temples and eyes that seemed to see everything. «‘Hello there,’ Marcus said, his voice gentler than Emma had expected from someone so intimidating. «‘I’m Marcus.
What’s your name?’ «‘Emma,’ she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, remembering her mission, she straightened her shoulders with touching determination. «‘Would you like to buy a toy? They’re really good toys and I only need enough money for my mama’s medicine.’ The words hit Marcus like a physical blow.
He knelt down slowly, bringing himself to Emma’s eye level, his expensive suit forgotten as his knees touched the concrete. «‘Tell me about your mama, Emma.’ The floodgates opened. Words tumbled out of the little girl like water through a broken dam.
How Mama had been coughing for weeks. How she couldn’t clean the big offices any more because she was too tired. How the medicine from the free clinic wasn’t working and how the doctor said they needed different medicine that cost more money than they had.
The doctor said it might help make her better,’ Emma concluded, holding up Mr. Buttons with devastating hope. «‘This bear is really special. He used to talk, but his batteries died.