Alaric stepped back into his office building, his feet heavy and reluctant. The building stood tall and grand, with glass walls gleaming under the lights, but his thoughts were still caught on that little boy—Eston with his innocent eyes and the small hand that had clutched the check and the leftover bread.
He walked through the quiet corridor. Once inside his office, he set his bag on the desk and glanced at the remaining package of bread. Just a few pieces left, and they were taro-flavored, his favorite.
He opened the wrapper, pulled out one piece, and took a bite. The soft sweetness of the taro filling, which usually comforted him, now tasted bland. His tongue rejected it. Not because the bread was bad, but because Eston's image still lingered in his mind.
"A child that young... fighting against time," Alaric muttered.
