1. Lost

Ava Sánchez, a mere eighteen years old, navigated the tangled web of New York City's streets, her lean body marked by weariness and a life of hardship. Her large, dark eyes were pools of fatigue, veiled with apprehension, and her once-lustrous brown hair, now dulled and streaked with the city's grime, framed a face pale with hunger and stress. The world's burdens bore heavily on her fragile shoulders. Each step an agonizing march against the desperation that seemed to gnaw at her very core.

Dressed in tattered clothing that offered little protection against the city's biting chill, she moved through the night. Driven by the relentless ache of an empty stomach that resonated deep within her soul. Her heart ached with longing. Her body cried for nourishment, and the city, vast and indifferent, stretched out before her.

The city's relentless noise was a jarring cacophony to her ears, and its dazzling bright lights seemed to dance and whirl before her eyes, an overwhelming contrast to the darkness of her circumstances.

In the heart of New York City, tucked away like an elegant secret, lay the high-end restaurant named Poncholes. To Ava, weary from hunger and wandering, it was a beacon in the chaos of the metropolis. Its warmly lit windows beckoned, casting a golden glow on the pavement, while soft piano melodies seemed to reach out, inviting her closer. She was drawn to its graceful ambiance, a world she had never known but somehow yearned for.

Standing at the threshold, she hesitated, glancing through the glass at the crisp white tablecloths and sparkling crystal glasses. Her reflection was a stark contrast: sunken eyes, dirt-streaked face, and tattered clothes clinging to her slender frame.

Summoning courage, she stepped inside. The aroma of devine cuisine embraced her, and the clinking of silverware became a delicate symphony. Her heart pounded in her chest as she approached the owner, a distinguished gentleman with a dignified air. Lines of wisdom etched his face, his eyes sharp yet kind.

"Please, sir," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper, raw with desperation. Her eyes brimmed with tears, pleading, hopeful. "I'll do anything. Wash dishes, clean floors. Clean toilets. I just need work."

Jorge, the owner, regarded her with a measured gaze, his eyes searching hers, seeming to probe the depths of her soul. He studied her worn appearance, noticing her trembling hands and the way her thin shoulders quivered. His brow furrowed, concern evident in his eyes as she approched him. "When was the last time you ate, young lady?"

Ava's lips trembled as she looked down, embarrassment and hunger mingling. "I don't know, sir. Yesterday, maybe."

The owner's face softened, compassion replacing his initial apprehension. He gestured to a nearby table. "Sit. Let me bring you something to eat first. Then we'll talk, and you can call me Jorge."

Ava's eyes widened, disbelief mingling with gratitude. She sank into a chair, watching as the owner disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, he placed a steaming bowl of soup before her, the fragrance intoxicating.

As Ava ate, savoring every spoonful, Jorge sat across from her, his expression thoughtful. "I'm going to guess, you don't have any identification, do you?"

Ava shook her head, tears welling again. "No, sir. But I'll work hard. I promise."

Jorge's eyes held hers, kindness and understanding radiating from his gaze. "Alright, girl. You can work here. Under the table, until we can figure it out."

A sob of relief escaped Ava's lips, gratitude flooding her being. She followed the owner into the back of the restaurant, her heart surging with hope. He handed her a clean uniform, guiding her to a bathroom equipped with a shower.

"You can freshen up here," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Then we'll get you started."