An orphaned boy found a luxurious Gucci bag overflowing with money, but instead of taking it, he chose to return it, unaware that it belonged to one of the wealthiest women in the city. What happened next will leave you speechless. The city sky was overcast, and atop one of the skyscrapers stood Valeria. She was no ordinary woman.

Her name appeared in business magazines, was mentioned in important meetings, and she was a role model for millions of young entrepreneurs. However, beneath her brilliant achievements, Valeria carried a wound that never healed. The loss of her only son, Raúl, due to a careless act that ended in tragedy, had haunted her. Valeria never forgave herself and forbade anyone from mentioning Raúl’s name in her presence.

She shut down all her emotions and left no room for her feelings. Suddenly, her phone vibrated—a message from her assistant. Investors from Qatar were requesting that the meeting be moved up to 5 p.m. “Ma’am, they’re already at headquarters.” Valeria replied without flinching.

She brought the car in low right away. She walked to her spacious living room and picked up a small bag from the table. It was a limited-edition Gucci bag, recently arrived from Milan, sent by her usual boutique. The leather was still stiff, the color vibrant. The elevator descended slowly, and soft music played, but it couldn’t break through the silence in her mind.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and in a rare second, she saw Raúl’s face, five years old, with an innocent smile. That face appeared in the darkness of her eyelids, and she immediately pushed it away. The elevator door opened. Her personal chauffeur was already waiting outside with a luxurious black car, its door open.

She was about to get in when her phone vibrated again. This time it was the finance director. “Ma’am, we just received a tax audit notification. There are documents you need to review immediately. Send them to my email,” Valeria replied quickly. At that moment, she stepped away from the car. In her left hand, she carried the Gucci bag she had just picked up.

And without realizing it, while reading a long and complicated message, she placed the bag on the roof of the car. Her attention was glued to her cell phone screen. The world around her didn’t matter to her. The driver opened the door again. “Ma’am, we’re going straight to the main office.” “Yes,” Valeria replied, getting into the car without looking up. The car moved slowly, and the Gucci bag remained forgotten on the roof.

After traveling several meters, at the first curve, the bag fell off, rolling onto the pavement, and no one noticed. The leather-colored bag, with its elegant cut and gleaming metal, lay on the ground. Its value was equivalent to a small apartment in the suburbs. No one knew that it contained documents that could make or break a millionaire’s reputation. After a few minutes, a skinny boy wearing clothes With ragged clothes and dirty hair, he approached her unknowingly.

His name was Santiago. He was barely 10 years old, but his face bore the weight of a grown man, battered by life. He walked slowly, not from tiredness, but because he hadn’t eaten anything since midday. He hadn’t been able to collect bottles that morning; he’d only found two small ones, not enough to buy a piece of bread. Santiago lived alone.

His mother, the only person he had in the world, had died three nights earlier from COVID. Being very poor, Santiago watched his mother tremble, calm down, and then grow cold without being able to hug her. Since that night, he had slept alone under a torn tarp behind the market, without a funeral, without the embraces of family. He accompanied his mother’s body from afar down the street to the cemetery.

Since then, Santiago had wandered aimlessly, searching for something, perhaps food or hope, but suddenly his eyes caught something unusual. He saw something shining on the ground, covered in fine dust, but clearly expensive. He approached cautiously. Looking both ways as A thief, afraid of being caught. His hands trembled as he touched the soft leather of the bag.

It was different from the ones he saw at the market. He unzipped a small zipper and stood motionless. Inside was a lot of money: perfectly folded 1,000-peso bills, a leather wallet, cards, and a document with the seal of a large company. He didn’t understand its contents, but he knew it wasn’t just any old thing.

Santiago’s heart pounded. He had survived by begging, collecting scraps, and sleeping on newspapers. Now he had enough money to live for months, maybe longer. His eyes filled with tears. He sat on the sidewalk, clutching the bag, his head bowed. A phrase echoed in his mind, his mother’s last words: “Never forget who you are and what I taught you.”

Santiago didn’t know it was a Gucci bag. He didn’t know its price or how to pronounce the brand, but he knew it didn’t belong to him, and if it wasn’t his, he had to return it, even if his stomach was empty and He had nothing. Across the street, some men at a food stall watched him.

One of them approached. “Hey, kid, what did you find?” he asked in a deep voice.

Santiago clutched the bag to his chest. “Nothing, sir, just a plastic bag.” “You’re lying, that’s expensive. Give it to me.” Santiago ran as fast as he could, his feet bare, but he didn’t stop. He ran through the market, narrow alleyways, and across dusty ground until he was sure no one was following him, panting. He kept clutching the bag as if it were the last memory of his mother.

Elsewhere in the city, Valeria realized she was missing it. Getting out of the car, she reached for the bag to grab some documents and couldn’t find it. She looked around and asked the driver, “Where’s my bag?” The driver, confused, replied, “Did you bring it, ma’am?” Valeria paled. She remembered leaving it on the roof of the car. Now it was gone.

The event organizers were asking about her. The investors were waiting, but Valeria couldn’t think straight. It wasn’t just a bag. It contained confidential merger documents, the company’s digital certificates, his passport, and identification. The information was worth more than the bag itself.

If it fell into the wrong hands, his reputation and business could collapse overnight. He ordered his assistant to contact the boutique, review security camera footage, and alert the police. His face remained calm, but inside, a storm raged. The afternoon sun was fading, illuminating the dirty streets with a harsh glare that never touched the hearts of those who lived there.

Behind the tall buildings and the luxury cars that drove by without a glance, there was a world invisible to the news and the conversations of people like Valeria, the world where Santiago lived every day, hidden behind old cardboard boxes in a corner of the market, panting as he clutched the bag.

His hands trembled, not from fear, but from exhaustion, hunger, and a newfound sense of responsibility. He opened the bag again, not to take anything, but to look for clues. He found a business card belonging to Valeria, an executive director, with the logo of a company he didn’t recognize, but which seemed important. Santiago could barely read and knew how to search. He had gone to school when his mother was healthy and they lived in a small room with Tejo.

But for the past two years, school had been a lost dream. He caressed the name on the card: Valeria. He didn’t know who she was, but he sensed she was someone important, rich, and that she must be looking for his bag. He didn’t know where to go. He didn’t know the address on the card, but he knew he wouldn’t stop until he returned it.

Night fell quickly in those corners of the city, bringing dangers: gang members, extortionists, and police who despised street children, even other scavengers who could become cruel for something valuable. Santiago decided to sleep under a bridge, hiding the bag under his thin clothes. The cold chilled him to the bone, but he hugged it as if it were the only worthwhile fight he had.

In a restless sleep, he dreamt he was eating hot chicken and rice with his mother, who smiled at him and stroked his hair. Her soft voice called to him, but faded into the mist. He woke with wet eyes, wiping them with the back of his hand. A new day was beginning, and he had to get moving. Elsewhere in the city, Valeria didn’t sleep.

She called dozens of people, asked to review security camera footage from his route, contacted the police, and instructed her team to distribute a missing person alert. Nothing worked; there was no trace. Sitting in front of her laptop, she looked at sales charts, but the numbers were meaningless. It wasn’t just about the money or the documents. Inside the bag was a photo of Raúl, the only one she kept in a small wallet.

She carried it everywhere, the only object that made her feel like a mother. Valeria clenched her fists for the first time in years. She felt fear, not for her reputation, but for losing the last trace of her son. The next morning, Santiago arrived downtown after walking for almost two hours, asking for directions to the card. Many ignored him, others mocked him, some tried to snatch his bag, but he didn’t give up.

His feet ached, sweat soaked his back, but he kept searching until he found a building with the same logo as the card. Valeria’s headquarters stood before a glass door far too luxurious for someone like him. Suited men walked by without even looking at him.

His small, dirty, and injured body contrasted sharply with the surroundings, but his eyes held a strength few adults possessed. Conviction. He took a step forward, but a guard stopped him. “Hey, where are you going? This isn’t the place for you,” the guard said, pushing him. The bag almost fell into a storm drain, but Santiago retrieved it.

He didn’t get angry or cry. He sat on the sidewalk in front of the building, hoping for a miracle. Inside, a few floors away, Valeria was checking emails with missing person reports. Everything was negative. There was no stock market, no…

He listened to the news, only a growing emptiness. Outside, Santiago trembled; the sun was high, and his body was exhausted, waiting for something he didn’t even understand.

He didn’t know Valeria’s face or her full name, but he knew he had to return the bag. Even though the world seemed to reject him, his stomach growled. Hunger was a tearing pain. He looked at the bag and then at a food stand across the street. The aroma of tacos and fried snacks reached him. People were eating, laughing. His world seemed so distant and different.

Suddenly, a soft but sharp voice whispered in his mind, “Could you buy food with that money?” He knew there were bills inside. He could eat his fill, sleep in a hostel, stop feeling cold. No one would know. And surely the owner wouldn’t care. His hand touched the zipper of the bag. He wanted to see the money, make sure it was still there. But when he opened it, his eyes found something that stopped him.

A photo of a boy about five years old, with big eyes and a wide smile, was tucked into a plastic sleeve inside his wallet. He slammed the bag shut as if afraid the heavens would see him. He hugged it tighter, and the voices in his head died away. The money could fill his stomach today, but it would leave him empty forever. He wept silently.

Tears streamed down his dirty face, not from hunger, but because he had almost betrayed the only legacy his mother had left him: honesty. A few passersby glanced at him, but no one approached. They were all preoccupied with their own affairs. Santiago got up, unsteady on his feet, but with unwavering determination. He decided to try again. He circled the building, looking for another entrance. He slipped into the underground parking garage, weaving between luxury cars.

He hoped to find someone to talk to. Then, a small miracle occurred. An older man in a clean uniform emerged from a door marked “Maintenance.” Seeing Santiago, he stopped. “Hey, kid, what are you doing here? I want to return this bag.” It belongs to someone important who works here. I found it in the street. Bag, let me see.

Santiago opened the bag slightly, revealing its contents. The man was silent for a few seconds, then nodded. Wait here. He returned minutes later with a young woman wearing an ID badge around her neck. Her name was Laura, the executive assistant to the director. She eyed Santiago suspiciously, but when she saw the bag, her eyes widened.

It’s Mrs. Valeria’s bag. He immediately called the office. On the 38th floor, Valeria was staring at a cold coffee when her phone rang. “Ma’am, we found your bag. A street kid brought it in. He says he found it.” Valeria stood up slowly and said, “Bring him here, please.” The elevator doors opened. Santiago hesitated.

The office was enormous, cold, with glass doors. He felt out of place, but Laura guided him. Everyone was staring at him, a dirty boy with wounds on his legs, holding a luxurious bag. At the far end of the room stood the woman whose name he only knew from the business card, Valeria. Their eyes met, and the world seemed to stop. Santiago took a step forward and handed her the bag without a word.

Valeria opened it, checked the contents; everything was intact. Then her gaze fell on Raúl’s photo. At that moment, her eyes welled up with tears. Then she looked at Santiago. “Did you find it?” Santiago nodded. “You didn’t take anything.” “No, I just wanted to return it.” They looked at each other in silence. Suddenly, something unexpected happened. Valeria knelt down to be at Santiago’s level.

For the first time in years, she cried, not from loss, but because a stranger had returned something invaluable to her. In an office filled with keyboards and calls, the atmosphere shifted. Everyone held their breath at the scene. The most powerful woman in the building wept in front of a ragged child. Valeria quickly wiped away her tears.

She never let anyone see her vulnerable, but this time the tears flowed uncontrollably. Memories of Raúl, the baby she had held, the child who called her Mom, the son she had let go without saying goodbye. It all came flooding back in seconds because of the honesty of this unknown boy. She stood up. “What’s your name?” “Santiago, ma’am,” he answered softly.

“Where do you live?” Santiago lowered his gaze. His lips trembled. “I don’t have a home.” Valeria felt a sharp pain. “And your parents?” My mom died of COVID last week. I don’t know who my dad is. The employees present felt oppressed. Laura turned away to hide her tears.

No one expected such a young boy to live alone in such a harsh world and still choose to be honest. “Why didn’t you take the money?” Valeria asked. Santiago answered without hesitation. “My mom told me that if you lose everything, never stop being honest.” Those words resonated within Valeria like thunder. She stared at Santiago. That boy hadn’t just saved her documents and her son’s photo.

He had saved something she had buried: her faith that kindness still existed. After a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, Valeria said firmly, “Come with me.” Santiago hesitated. “Where

Where, ma’am?” “Home.” Are you coming home with me? Laura, surprised, took a step forward. Ma’am, do you mean? Yes. Prepare the guest room and call the doctor. This child needs a checkup now. Santiago didn’t understand.

An hour ago he had been on the sidewalk, treated like garbage. Now he was being invited to the home of someone whose name made executives tremble. They went down to the parking lot. The driver opened the door hesitantly when he saw the boy in torn, mud-covered clothes. But Valeria’s gaze silenced any objection. No one spoke in the car. Valeria glanced at Santiago out of the corner of her eye.

The boy was asleep, leaning against the window, still clutching the bag as if it were his shield against the world. Upon arriving, a tall gate opened automatically. A courtyard with a fountain greeted them. The two-story house was majestic and silent. The servants, surprised, obeyed when Valeria ordered a room and hot water to be prepared.

Santiago was bathed, dressed in clothes that were almost his size, and examined by a family doctor. He had no serious illnesses. Only exhaustion, malnutrition, and blisters on his feet from walking so much. Then they sat him down in the dining room. In front of him, for the first time, was a plate of hot rice, fried chicken, and a glass of milk.

Santiago was stunned, staring at the food. His hands trembled as he picked up his spoon, as if he feared it was all a dream. Valeria said gently from across the table, “Eat. This is your home now.” Santiago looked at her, his eyes brimming with tears. “I really can be here.” “Not only can you. I want you to stay.” Santiago didn’t answer; he just cried.

Cries he had held back because he had nowhere to release them. Now, in a strange but warm place, he felt safe enough to let them out. That night, for the first time in days, he slept in a bed with a pillow and blankets, the warm air from the air conditioner enveloping him. He slept clutching the corner of the sheet as if holding a promise never to return to the streets.

Meanwhile, Valeria was in her studio with her Gucci bag. She wiped the area in front of her, took out her wallet, opened a compartment, and pulled out Raúl’s photo. She stared at it for a long time. “I haven’t finished being a mother, Raúl,” she whispered. “You left, but perhaps God sent someone to save me.” She glanced toward Santiago’s room. In the silence, something new was born. Not a sound, not a movement, but a feeling: love.

Morning dawned in the majestic house, a dream unfolding. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the white marble and immaculate sofas. In the kitchen, the toaster and coffee maker clattered in the air. The aroma of butter and fresh milk enveloped everything. Santiago slowly opened his eyes.

It wasn’t a torn tarp or a cold floor. He was in a real bed, warm, not shivering, but a strange feeling lingered in his chest. He sat up carefully, afraid of disturbing anyone. He walked slowly out of the room, looking around. The house was too big, the walls white, everything in order, untouched. Not only It was luxurious, it was lonely.

At the end of the hallway, a maid saw him and smiled. “Would you like some breakfast, little one? Mrs. Valeria is waiting for you in the dining room.” Santiago nodded. He followed the maid to a long table, more suited to meetings than family meals. At the far end, Valeria, her hair pulled back and wearing a white shirt, was reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee.

Seeing him, she closed the paper. “Good morning,” she said briefly. “Good morning, ma’am,” Santiago replied softly. “Did you sleep well?” “Yes, thank you. From now on, you can eat here and sleep in that room. If you need anything, tell Maria or me directly.” Santiago sat down across from her with a plate of rice, scrambled eggs, and orange juice.

He ate slowly, but inside he still felt like a guest who could be kicked out at any moment. After breakfast, Valeria led him to the living room. “Do you know how to read and write?” “Yes, a little.” Valeria paused. “If you want, I can enroll you in a good school, but you must study seriously.” Santiago looked at her.

“I want to, ma’am.” “Fine, but there’s one condition. You must believe you deserve a better life.” Santiago didn’t answer, but a small spark of determination grew inside him. Days passed, and Santiago began to adapt. He learned to use liquid soap, cutlery, and to speak respectfully to adults. Although his body was getting used to it, his heart wasn’t.

He often stood by the window looking out at the street, missing the noise, the hurried footsteps, and the bustle of the market that had once been his home. Valeria noticed, but she didn’t pressure him. She watched him silently. One afternoon, she took him for a walk in the backyard. The gentle breeze and birdsong provided the background noise. They sat on a wooden bench.

Santiago looked at the grass and, without being prompted, began to tell his story. “I lived with my mom behind the market. Our house was made of wood, but she said a small house didn’t matter as long as we were together.”

Valeria listened in silence. When she got sick, I asked the neighbors for help, but no one would. When she died, I couldn’t even hug her.

Santiago’s voice trembled, but he didn’t cry. I thought that after that I would disappear too, but I found that bag and now I don’t know if I’m dreaming. Valeria looked at him. “And why did you give it back to me?” My mother said we shouldn’t take what wasn’t ours, even if we were hungry. There was a long pause.

Then Valeria said softly, “You know? You remind me of someone, my son Raúl.” Santiago looked up, seeing Valeria for the first time not as a cold millionaire, but as a mother who had lost her son. The following days, Santiago started school. Not one in luxurious buildings, but a small one with kind teachers and children who didn’t always have new shoes. Valeria chose it on purpose.

She didn’t want Santiago to feel thrown into an unfamiliar world. She wanted him to grow from his roots. Santiago studied enthusiastically, learned quickly, and wrote with ease. His teachers admired his memory and, above all, his honesty. But it wasn’t all easy. At school, some children made fun of him.

Even though he arrived in a luxury car, he still spoke like a street kid. Santiago tried to be patient, but the teasing hurt. One day, during recess, a boy pushed him. “You’re just passing through. You’re not the son of rich people.” Santiago fell to the ground. His knee bled, but he didn’t react. He got up, He looked at the boy and said, “Even though I’m not the son of rich people, I’m not a liar, and I don’t take what isn’t mine. That’s what my mother taught me.”

At that moment, a teacher intervened, but Santiago’s words spread. And little by little, others began to respect him for who he was. That night, Valeria received a report from school and called Santiago to the cafeteria. “Is something making you sad, Santiago?” He shook his head, but his face didn’t lie.

“If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.” Santiago looked at his plate and spoke. “At school, some people say I’m a freeloader, that I’m just passing through wealth.” “And do you believe them sometimes, ma’am?” Valeria was silent. Then she said firmly, “You were chosen not out of pity, but because you have something they don’t.”

“What?” Valeria’s eyes shone with conviction. “You didn’t ask for anything when you found my Gucci bag. You could have taken the money, but you didn’t. That’s not just honesty, Santiago, it’s character. And character can’t be bought with all the money in the world.” The words sank in for Santiago.

He began to believe in his own worth, not out of pity, but because of the choices he made when no one was watching. Days later, the school organized an inspiration day event. Students were asked to write about a life-changing experience. Santiago wrote about the Gucci bag, not because of its price, but because of the choice he made when he was hungry, about the picture of the child on the bag, his mother’s last words, and how his life changed from then on.

His teacher read the text aloud in class. Everyone fell silent. No one expected that the rumors about him concealed such a profound story. After class, several children approached him. “Santiago, your text was incredible. We didn’t know you had suffered so much. I’m sorry for talking behind your back.” Santiago didn’t He responded angrily, but only smiled.

It’s okay. I used to judge others too. Little by little, his relationship with his classmates changed. Not everyone became friends, but the looks of disdain turned into respect. He was no longer just the adopted street kid, but someone with a story and courage.

Santiago was growing not only physically, but emotionally. He became more confident, open, and understood that he deserved to be loved. Every morning he got up early, helped set the table, made coffee for Valeria, and read before going to school. This discipline wasn’t forced, but a reflection of his gratitude. He knew that not all children get a second chance, and he didn’t want to waste this one.

One night, when Valeria was exhausted from work, Santiago came in with a glass of warm milk. “Mom, if you’re tired, drink this. It’ll take away your headache.” Valeria looked at the glass. “Where did you learn to give milk for pain?” “My mom used to. If I had a fever, she’d give me milk and oil.” eucalyptus. Valeria’s tears almost spilled, but she held them back. She hugged him.

That hug was different, warm, like that of a mother who finds a lost piece of her heart. The rain fell softly outside. The droplets danced on the windows, creating a calm rhythm. In the room, Santiago sat on a thick rug, sketching in his notebook.

New colored pencils from school were scattered about. It wasn’t his drawing that stood out, but his heartfelt concentration. Valeria watched him from the sofa with a cup of hot tea. She felt a peace she hadn’t known since Raúl left.

Santiago drew two people, a woman with long hair and a…

The boy smiled. At the top, he wrote, “Mom and Santiago.” “Can I see?” Valeria asked. Santiago closed the notebook, embarrassed. “It’s ugly, Mom. Ugly to whom? It’s unbelievable.” She sat down next to him, opened the notebook, and saw the simple but meaningful drawing. “Raúl used to draw when he was little too,” Valeria said.

Santiago looked at her; she rarely mentioned that name. “Once he drew me flying on a dragon to go to the clouds, and I was sad. I drew you on a bicycle because you say you never exercise.” Valeria let out a soft laugh. How cheeky. Their laughter filled the silence of the rainy afternoon. “Santiago,” Valeria said gently. “Yes, Mom.”

Valeria took a deep breath, taking his hand. “When you found the bag, there was Raúl’s picture. The only one I always carry. Since he died, I couldn’t look at Bumes, or other children, or smile at babies. I closed everything.” Santiago listened to her shining eyes.

I thought I was dead inside, but when you arrived to return the bag, I felt like Raúl was showing me the way. He sent you to me. Santiago couldn’t speak, he just squeezed Valeria’s hand. You healed my deepest wound, the wound of being a mother who failed. I thought I didn’t deserve to do it again, but you gave me that chance. Santiago hugged her.

A full hug, without hesitation, as if no words or explanations were needed. They knew they understood each other. Weeks later, Santiago opened up more. At school, his grades improved. He got top marks in math. His Spanish impressed the teachers, and his writing, full of honesty, touched hearts. One day, an email arrived at the school. It was brief, but impactful.

We’ve invited Santiago Valdés to be a young speaker at a global education conference in Japan. His story is inspiring. Expenses are covered. The principal called Valeria, excited. This isn’t common. Not even children from expensive schools are chosen. It’s a global event. Valeria looked at Santiago, who was watering plants in the garden.

The boy who had arrived broken would now speak before the world. That night, she broke the news to him carefully, knowing that big news made him nervous. “Santiago, you’ve been invited to Japan to speak in front of people from all over the world.” He was surprised, not out of pride, but out of fear. “Why me?” “Because your story can change others. But I’m nobody, Mom. Maybe not to them.”

“But to someone who has lost hope, you are a light.” After paperwork and visa procedures, the day of the trip arrived. Santiago wore a light gray suit with a letter in his pocket. Not a speech, but a letter to his mother. He wanted to express his gratitude, not just inspire. At the airport, teachers, classmates, and local reporters saw him off.

As the plane took off, he gripped Valeria’s hand tightly. They didn’t talk much, but their bond was stronger. In Japan, he was received warmly, given an English coach, and guided on speaking at international forums, but Santiago insisted on writing on his own. On the day of the conference, an auditorium in Tokyo was packed with hundreds of people: young people, educators, ministers, ambassadors. Santiago Valdés’s name shone on the screen.

He stepped onto the podium, took a deep breath, his hands cold, but his steps firm. He spoke in simple English, with a translator if necessary, but his words broke through all formality. He told of losing his mother, sleeping under a bridge, finding the Gucci bag, returning it, and meeting a woman who wasn’t his mother, but who loved him as if he were. He wasn’t seeking pity.

He simply opened his heart when he said, “My mother taught me that if you lose everything, don’t lose your honesty.” Everyone fell silent. Some tears glistened, others squeezed their children’s hands. Many stood applauding before he had even finished. Santiago concluded with: “I don’t speak because I’m the best, I speak because I was given a chance to survive.”

The audience erupted in applause. An English teacher told him, “You faced what we forgot to teach.” An Indian girl hugged him. “Now I want to be brave.” Valeria, from the stands, wept. Not from sadness, but because she knew that choosing that boy with the Gucci bag was the best decision of her life.

That night at the hotel, Santiago wrote a letter. “Mom, today I was on a big stage, but I was really on your shoulders. Without your words, I would have been lost. I hope you are proud. I miss you, but I am grateful to have Mom Valeria. She takes care of me like you did.” He folded the letter and kept it as a reminder that he had kept his promise.

The story of Santiago and Valeria shows how the power of a small decision can completely change the lives of others. When Santiago chose not to take what wasn’t his, he didn’t know he was opening the door to a new life. When Valeria trusted a stranger, she didn’t imagine that lost love would be reborn. From two opposite worlds, they found each other, not through blood or names, but through wounded hearts. who sought each other out and healed each other.