From that day on, whenever a child in the city quietly healed someone who had given up hope, word would eventually reach Alexander. He never interfered. He simply made sure there was a warm meal, a safe bed, and a school spot waiting—if the child ever chose to step out of the shadows.

And sometimes, late at night, he would touch the place on his chest where Jamal’s hand had rested, and whisper:

“I’m still allowing myself to feel the pain. Thank you, kid.”