“I just want to see my balance,” the girl said, voice barely above a whisper.
It didn’t belong in that room.
In Harrington & Vale Private Bank, silence was curated. Marble floors gleamed, lighting softened power, and voices glided, never trembled. Patrons moved like shadows of wealth, confident or invisible. Few belonged. She didn’t—yet she stepped inside anyway.
Her name was Lila Harper. Eleven years old.
A faded canvas backpack hung from one shoulder. A worn debit card rested in her small hand, scratched at the edges, softened by careful handling. Her jacket was too thin for October, her sneakers bent inward at the soles, laces double-knotted. Every detail shouted scarcity in a room that worshiped abundance.
The security guard straightened. “Miss… are you lost?”
“No, sir,” she said quickly. “I just… I want to see my balance.”
He hesitated. Children didn’t come here. Especially not alone.
Before he could act, Marianne Cole stepped forward. Twenty years reading rooms like this had taught her the difference between policy and humanity. She crouched slightly, softening her presence. “Hi. What’s your name?”
“Lila.”
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