She just looked at him—calm, steady, as if she had been waiting for that question.
“My name?” she repeated quietly.
He nodded, his grip tightening around the piece of bread. His heart was pounding now, louder than the traffic, louder than everything.
The girl gave a small, almost shy smile.
“My мама says my name is Liana.”
The world seemed to stop.
The man’s face drained of color. His hand trembled as the bread nearly slipped from his fingers.
“Liana…” he whispered.
That name wasn’t just a name.
It was a memory.
A promise.
A life he had lost.
His eyes searched her face more carefully now—the shape of her eyes, the softness in her voice, the strange familiarity that suddenly made terrifying sense.
“Your mother…” he said, struggling to breathe. “Where is she?”
The girl pointed down the street with her small hand.
“She works there,” she said. “She told me to wait, but… you looked sad.”
The man slowly stood up, his legs unsteady, his eyes never leaving her.
Hope and fear collided inside him.
“Take me to her,” he said quietly.
The girl nodded and reached for his hand without hesitation.
As their fingers intertwined, the broken man followed the little girl through the crowd—holding onto the smallest piece of bread… and the fragile possibility that not everything he lost was gone forever.
