Behind the door, Daniel froze, ready for the usual disappointment. In his imagination, he could already hear the hurried rustle of bills slipping into a pocket and the awkward justifications. But Sofia’s voice sounded steady, without the tremor of greed:

— …five hundred… six hundred…

He did not know that the night before she had spent three hours in the emergency room with her mother, that the doctors had spoken about expensive treatment and time that could not be lost. That money could have been salvation. It could have solved everything with a single movement of her hand.

But Sofia finished counting, carefully aligned the bills, and placed them back where they had been. Then she took a small notebook from her pocket, tore out a sheet, and wrote in neat handwriting: “18,000 € found. Left on the dresser.”

She placed the note on top and quietly added, as if speaking to herself:

— What belongs to others belongs to others.

At that moment, Daniel felt something inside him break. Not anger, not annoyance — but his unshakable theory that everyone has a price.

Fifteen years of convictions crumbled faster than those bills could have disappeared. His world, built on distrust, suddenly proved fragile, and hope — alive and stubborn.