I was 8 years old, still living in an orphanage with no memory of my parents. That afternoon, I sat alone on a park bench near the orphanage, eating a piece of bread. A young man, maybe 18, came by. He looked tired, worn out. With only one seat left near me, he sat down, keeping his distance. I didn’t pay him much attention—just focused on eating.

Then I heard a low growl. His stomach. I glanced at him, and without thinking, I held out my bread, even though I’d already taken a bite. He looked stunned, hesitating, but I insisted. He took it silently. We didn't speak a word. Just two strangers sharing a moment.

The orphanage caretaker called me. I ran off without looking back.

Ten years passed. I was 18 now, free from the orphanage and searching for work. After hours of walking, I saw a job poster outside a restaurant. I walked in, told the staff I wanted to apply, and they led me to the back to meet the owner.

When the door opened, a man looked up from behind the desk. His expression froze.

I smiled politely, not recognizing him at all.

But he remembered me.

The little girl with half a piece of bread.