The next morning came like any other—quiet, heavy, and uncertain.
I went back to the market, as always, but something was different that day. An elderly woman I'd often helped with her baskets waved me over. She looked at me closely, her wrinkled face soft with concern.
"Child, you work hard," she said gently. "And you never complain. Come help me with my shop full-time. I can't pay much, but I can feed you and your siblings."
I stared at her, stunned. No one had ever offered kindness without expecting something in return. My voice caught in my throat, but I managed a quiet, "Thank you."
That job changed everything.
It didn't fix our lives overnight, but it gave us something. A rhythm. Food on the table. A routine. And slowly, I saw my siblings start to laugh again. Small laughs, faint smiles—but they were there.
I saved every little coin I could. At night, I taught my sister how to read. I used torn notebooks from trash bins, wrote lessons with charcoal when we ran out of pencils. I didn't know what tomorrow would bring, but I was starting to believe in something again.
Then, one afternoon, while sweeping the front of the old woman'shop, I saw a car pull up across the road. A man stepped out—sharp suit, phone pressed to his ear.
He looked familiar.
I squinted.
No… it couldn't be.
He turned.
And just for a second—his eyes met mine.
It was him.
Mr. Philip.
Back.
And just like that… hope cracked the sky open again.
Time froze.
My heart slammed against my chest as the broom slipped from my hand and hit the ground with a dull thud. Mr. Philip. After all this time—he was real, not a memory or a dream. He looked older, tired, but alive. And he was right there.
I took a shaky step forward, then stopped.
My hands trembled. My throat tightened.
Tears filled my eyes before I could stop them. I didn't know what to say, what to do—should I run to him? Should I scream? Should I fall to my knees?
All I could whisper was, "He's here…"
He hadn't seen me clearly yet. He was still speaking into his phone, distracted. But I couldn't move. Every memory came crashing down—Dad's death, Mom's scream, the hospital, Mr. Philip's promise.
"You said you'd be there…" I choked under my breath.
I stepped out into the road.
"Mr. Philip!" I called.
His head turned. His eyes met mine fully this time.
Confusion.
Recognition.
And then… something else guilt.
"Anne?" he said slowly, as if the name tasted like dust.
And suddenly I was running.
Not with joy.
Not with anger.
With everything.
I threw myself into his arms before I knew what I was doing. My tears soaked into his shirt, and I gripped him like the world depended on it.