Rebecca stared at the closed office door like it had suddenly become dangerous.

“There’s no one in there,” she said.

But her voice shook.

The blind girl kept her face turned toward it.

“He is,” she whispered. “He stopped breathing when I said your name.”

Rebecca’s hand slowly released the girl’s wrist.

Red marks were already showing on the child’s skin.

The girl rubbed them quietly.

“I came to leave this,” she said.

From her pocket, she pulled out a small folded envelope.

Rebecca looked at it.

“What is that?”

“My mom’s donation,” the girl said. “She said it wasn’t much, but God would know her heart.”

Rebecca’s face softened for one second.

Then the office floor creaked.

The girl’s head turned again.

“He took the other envelopes,” she whispered.

Rebecca’s eyes widened.

The girl’s voice stayed small.

“I heard paper sliding. Then coins. Then your name.”

Rebecca walked to the office door with trembling hands.

“Who’s in there?” she called.

No answer.

The blind girl lowered her head.

“He said, ‘Rebecca will blame the child.’”

Rebecca’s face collapsed.

Not from anger.

From recognition.

She knew that voice.

Her own husband.

The man who managed the church charity fund.

The man who had told everyone the poor families were taking too much.

Rebecca reached for the handle, but stopped.

The girl whispered, “I wasn’t stealing.”

Rebecca turned back to her.

The little girl’s eyes were wet now.

“I was trying to give something.”

For a moment, the wealthy woman couldn’t speak.

Then she knelt again.

This time, not to accuse her.

To gently take the envelope from her shaking hand.

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca whispered.

The girl listened to her voice carefully.

Then she said, “Now you sound like your name.”