Once she was gone, Arthur emerged from his hiding place, his mind racing. He approached the safe with trembling hands, opening it to retrieve the envelope. It was tattered and worn, its edges frayed from being carried around for far too long. Inside, he found a series of crumpled, handwritten letters.

Each letter told a story of hardship and hope, penned by Clara in neat, looping script. She wrote about her family, living in a distant country and struggling under the weight of mounting debt. She described her dreams of sending them money, of building a life where none of them had to worry about their next meal or a roof over their heads.

Arthur’s heart ached as he read the words. Clara hadn’t taken anything for herself. Instead, she had left behind her story, trusting him, of all people, to understand. It was a plea not for money, but for recognition, for someone to see beyond the surface of her polite demeanor and see the person she truly was.