The city was freezing. That kind of cold that you can’t get rid of with a scarf or with your hands in your pockets. It was the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, that reminds you that you are alone, without a home, without food… without anyone.

Not that hunger of “I haven’t eaten in a few hours”, but the one that clings to your body for days.

The kind that makes your stomach rumble like a drum, and your head spin when you bend down too fast. Real hunger. The kind that hurts.

I hadn’t eaten a thing for more than two days. I had only had a little water from a public fountain, and bitten into a piece of old bread that a lady on the street had given me.

My shoes were torn, my clothes were dirty, and my hair was tangled as if I had fought with the wind.

I was walking along an avenue lined with elegant restaurants. The warm lights, the soft music, the laughter of the diners… it was all a world foreign to my own.

Behind each shop window, families were celebrating, couples were smiling, children were playing with their cutlery as if life could hurt.

And I… I was dying for a piece of bread.

After wandering around for several blocks, I decided to go into a restaurant that smelled heavenly. The aroma of roast beef, warm rice, and melted butter made my mouth water.

The tables were full, but nobody paid attention to me at first. I saw a table that had just been cleared, still with some food scraps, and my heart skipped a beat.

I walked carefully, without looking at anyone. I sat as if I were a customer, as if I too had a right to be there. And without thinking it through, I grabbed a piece of hard wood that had remained in the basket and put it in my mouth. It was cold, but for me it was a delicacy.

I put some cold chips in my mouth with trembling hands, and tried not to cry. A nearly dry piece of meat was next. I chewed it slowly, as if it were the last bite in the world.

But just as I was beginning to relax, a deep voice shook me like a slap in the face:

—Hey. You can’t do that.

I froze. I swallowed hard and lowered my gaze.

He was a tall man, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. His shoes shone like mirrors and his tie fell perfectly over his white shirt. He wasn’t a waiter. He didn’t even look like an ordinary customer.

“I… I’m sorry, sir,” I stammered, my face burning with embarrassment. “I was just hungry…”

I tried to put a piece of potato in my pocket, as if that could save me from humiliation. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me, as if he didn’t know whether to get angry or pity me.

—Come with me —order me faithfully.

I took a step back.

“I’m not going to steal anything,” I pleaded. “Let me finish this and I’ll leave. I swear I won’t make a scene.”

I felt so small, so broken, so invisible. As if I didn’t belong there. As if I were simply an annoying shadow.

But instead of throwing me out, he raised his hand, signaled to a waiter, and then sat down at a table in the back.

I remained still, wondering what was happening. A few minutes later, the waiter approached with a tray and placed a steaming plate in front of me: fluffy rice, juicy meat, steamed vegetables, a slice of hot bread and a large glass of milk.

“Is it for me?” I asked with a trembling voice.

—Yes —replied the waiter, smiling.

I looked up and saw the man watching me from his table. There was no mockery in his gaze. There was no pity. Only a kind of inexplicable calm.

I approached him, my legs like jelly.

“Why did he give me food?” I whispered.

He took off his jacket and put it on the chair, as if he were getting rid of an invisible suit of armor.

“Because nobody should have to scavenge for scraps to survive,” he said firmly. “Eat in peace. I own this place. And from today on, there will always be a plate waiting for you here.”

I was speechless. Tears burned my eyes. I cried, but only from hunger.

I cried from shame, from the shame, from the humiliation of feeling less… and from the relief of knowing that someone, for the first time in a long time, had truly seen me.

•••

I returned the next day.

And to the other one.

And the next one too.

Each time, the waiter greeted me with a smile, as if I were a regular customer. I sat at the same table, ate in silence, and when I finished, I carefully folded my napkins.

One afternoon, he reappeared: the man in the suit. He invited me to sit with him. At first I hesitated, but something in his voice made me feel safe.

“Do you have a name?” he asked me.

—Lucía—I answered softly.

—And age?

-Seventeen.

He nodded slowly. He asked no more questions.

After a while, he told me:

—You’re hungry, yes. But not just for food.

I looked at him confused.

—You are hungry for respect. For dignity. For someone to ask you how you are and not just see you as trash in the street.

I didn’t know what to answer. But I was right.

—What happened with your family?

—She died. My mom died of an illness. My dad… left with someone else. He never came back. I was left alone. They kicked me out of the place where I lived. I didn’t know where to go.

—And the school?

—I dropped out in the second year of secondary school. I was ashamed to go dirty. The teachers treated me like a freak. My classmates insulted me.

The man nodded again.

—You don’t need pity. You need opportunities.

He took a card out of his jacket and handed it to me.

—Go to this address tomorrow. It’s a training center for young people like you. We give them support, food, clothes, and above all, tools. I want you to go.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked with tears in my eyes.

—Because when I was a child, I also ate leftovers. And someone lent me a hand. Now it’s my turn to do it.

•••

The years passed. I entered the center that was recommended to me. I learned to cook, to read fluently, to use the computer. They gave me a warm bed, self-esteem classes, a psychologist who taught me that I was no less than anyone.

Today I am twenty-three years old.

I work as a cook in the kitchen of that same restaurant where it all began. My hair is clean, my uniform is ironed, and my shoes are sturdy.

I make sure that there’s always a hot meal for someone who needs it. Sometimes children, relatives, pregnant women arrive… all hungry for food, but also hungry to be seen.

And every time one of them enters, I serve them with a smile and say to them:

“How to trap him. Aqυí on his own. Here it is fed.

The man in the suit still dresses casually. He no longer wears a tight tie. He greets me with a wink and sometimes we share a coffee at the end of the tour.

—I knew you’d go far —upa poche told me.

—You helped me get started —I replied—, but the rest… I did it hungry.

He laughed.

—People underestimate the power of hunger. It doesn’t just destroy. It can also push.

And I knew it well.

Because my story began among leftovers. But now… now I cook hope.