Clemency still comes every three weeks. She still brings the fourteen dollars herself, and I still accept it. Her hair is short now, and the patch is slowly filling in. I can see the progress from behind my chair, but what matters more is what I see when she looks in the mirror. She no longer has to ask me to hide that part of her head. Her mother sits in the window seat, present and attentive, and the two of them leave together.

I have worked at Verity’s for nineteen years. I have learned that people bring more than split ends and tangled hair through the door. Sometimes they bring secrets they cannot say aloud. Clemency taught me that being seen can matter enormously, but she also taught me that noticing is not enough if you never act. I wish I had spoken sooner. I cannot change those eleven months, but I can be grateful that she trusted me when I finally asked. The hair is growing back, the appointments continue, and a little girl who once came alone no longer has to manage everything by herself.