The boy looked no older than ten—skinny, nervous, swallowed by a thrift-store jacket, shoes falling apart. He stood at the counter of First National Heritage Bank, clutching a brown envelope like it was the last thing he owned.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said softly. “I’d like to check my account balance.”
Branch manager Bradley Whitmore laughed. Loudly. “Your account? Kid, this isn’t a shelter. Get lost before I call security.”
A few customers snickered. Another muttered, “Just toss him out.”
But the boy didn’t flinch. “My name’s Wesley. My grandma opened the account. She passed away two months ago.”
He handed over the envelope. Bradley tore it open, expecting scrap paper—but inside was a Platinum Reserve card, reserved for high-net-worth clients. For a moment, confusion flashed across Bradley’s face, then he sneered. “Where’d you steal this?”
Wesley was sent to sit in the corner, invisible to everyone. Thirty minutes passed. He clutched his grandmother’s final letter:
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