Chapter 1 - THE BENCH BY THE GLASS
The gray deluge of a late October Chicago morning battered the four-story, floor-to-ceiling glass curtain of the Moretti Holdings tower, transforming the city outside into a smeared painting of charcoal, steel, and bleeding amber tail lights. Inside, the grand atrium was an island of vaulted limestone and polished Calacatta marble, insulated by acoustic dampening and heated to a pristine, quiet seventy-two degrees. The air smelled faintly of roasted espresso beans from the private lobby café and the clean, mineral scent of polished stone.
Sitting on the edge of a deep charcoal leather bench tucked along the eastern perimeter, seven-year-old Maya adjusted her grip on her baby sister.
Maya’s red nylon raincoat was thin, scuffed at the cuffs from long commutes on the Blue Line, and beaded with cold rainwater that she had carefully wiped from her shoulders before stepping onto the dry carpets. Her dark brown hair was plaited into a single, slightly lopsided braid tied off with an elastic band, a few loose tendrils clinging to her damp temples. Despite the exhaustion shadowing her pale, rosy cheekbones, her posture was taut with a quiet, adult vigilance that did not belong on a second-grader.
In her lap lay six-month-old Clara.
The infant was bundled in a soft, mint-green fleece blanket that had been washed until the edges were fuzzy and frayed. Clara was dry, warm, and resting securely in the crook of Maya’s left elbow, her head cradled with practiced, instinctive support.
Maya reached into the deep right pocket of her red coat and withdrew a clear plastic baby bottle.
She held it up against the white marble backdrop, squinting at the calibrated ounce markings. The pale formula barely reached the half-ounce line—a shallow pool of white liquid clinging to the bottom corners. Her lower lip quivered for half a second, but she caught herself, drawing in a sharp, quiet breath through her nose. She gave the bottle a tiny swirl, making sure none of the powdered mixture was wasted against the rim, and carefully uncapped the silicone nipple.
"Here, baby," Maya whispered, her voice soft and surprisingly steady. "Drink slow."
Clara stirred beneath the green blanket, her dark, round eyes blinking lazily before her tiny hands pushed out from the folds, reaching instinctively for the plastic cylinder. Maya guided the nipple to the baby's mouth, tilting the bottle to an exact angle so Clara wouldn't swallow air. The infant began to suckle with gentle, rhythmic contentment, her cheek flushing with sweet warmth.
Maya stroked her sister’s fine, dark down of hair with the knuckle of her thumb, her eyes drifting past the bench toward the brass-framed noticeboard outside the lobby café.
A handwritten card was pinned beneath the brass molding: BARISTA & MORNING PREP WANTED. INQUIRE WITHIN.
Maya stared at the card. She looked down at the bottle. There were two swallows left.
May you like
She gently pulled the empty nipple from Clara's lips before the baby could draw air, burping her softly against her shoulder with light, rhythmic pats until a tiny bubble escaped. Clara let out a contented, milk-drunk sigh and rested her head against Maya’s collarbone.
Maya stood up, shifting Clara’s weight with steady, careful balance, tucking the green fleece blanket snugly around her sister’s chest. Her small sneakers squeaked faintly against the gleaming marble as she turned toward the massive curved reception desk at the center of the atrium.
