“I know.”

She didn’t open the envelope. Just clutched it to her chest and whispered, “Thank you.”

And I swore I’d never let her eat plain rice alone again.

I already knew. The electric bill was due. Her part-time job at the bookstore had cut her hours. And she’d spent her last yen on a get-well card for a classmate’s mother.

She stared at it. Then her eyes glossed over—not with sadness, but that stubborn, angry love of someone who hates needing help.

“It’s not much,” I said. “But stop skipping lunch.”