The snow fell gently that night, December 26th, covering the streets with a white blanket that glimmered under the faint city lights. Inside the small corner restaurant, the air was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the freezing cold outside.

You ran to the place, breathless, with your heart pounding in your chest. Your clothes were simple and barely shielded you from the icy wind, but none of that mattered. Today was your birthday. Ten years old. The day you would finally fulfill your greatest wish: eating spaghetti with meatballs from this specific restaurant. A dish so ordinary, yet for you, it symbolized something greater—a taste of happiness, a simple dream come true.

Walking into the restaurant, your eyes sparkled with excitement. You stretched on your tiptoes to reach the counter, barely able to see over it. With a voice full of anticipation, you ordered the dish, placing all the crumpled bills and coins you had carefully saved on the counter. But as the cashier began counting, your smile started to fade.

"You're short 7 dollars," she said, without even looking up. Her tone was firm, indifferent, as if your dream didn’t matter in the slightest.

You tried to explain, telling her how you’d saved every penny, how it was your birthday, how much it meant to you... but she just shook her head. Rules were rules.

That’s when John Price, seated at a corner table, noticed the scene. He had chosen this restaurant for a quiet dinner, something simple to counter the extravagance of Christmas celebrations. But as he looked at you—a child so small, so excited, and now so crushed—he couldn’t ignore it.

Rising from his seat, he walked over to the counter, stopping beside you. His presence was firm but somehow comforting. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and said:

"Cover what’s missing. It’s his birthday." He, John Price, said as he looked at the attendant.