Most people walked on. Some offered pity, which felt worse than indifference. A middle-aged woman in a floral dress stopped to read the sign, sighing heavily. “Oh, honey,” she said, her voice dripping with sympathy. “I wish I could help, but I just don’t have the money.” Sophie maintained her polite smile. “That’s okay. Thank you for stopping.”
The woman lingered, shaking her head. “You poor thing. You must be so brave.” Brave. Sophie hated that word. She heard it constantly. She didn’t feel brave; she felt desperate and tired. She watched the woman walk away, feeling the weight of the empty interaction.
Not long after, a man in a leather jacket with sunglasses perched on his head sauntered up. He scanned the paintings with a critical sneer. “Nobody buys real art anymore, kid,” he muttered with an amused scoff. “You should try selling prints, or I don’t know, TikTok commissions.”
Sophie’s fingernails dug into her palms. She bit back a sharp retort, swallowing the anger that rose in her throat. She had encountered naysayers before—people who believed dreams were foolish. “I don’t need your advice,” she said, her voice low but firm. “I just need to fight.” The man snorted and blended back into the crowd, leaving Sophie to exhale her frustration. She wouldn’t let him win.
By the fourth day, the physical toll was undeniable. Sophie’s body ached from the hard metal stool, and the summer heat exacerbated the weakness from her treatments. She had sold only three paintings in total. It wasn’t enough. The skepticism of the man in the leather jacket began to echo in her mind. Maybe nobody cared.
Then, a young woman stopped. She wasn’t a tourist; she carried a notebook and wore a press badge clipped to her bag. Her dark hair was pulled back, and her eyes lit up as she surveyed the art. “This is beautiful,” she said, pointing to a twilight cityscape. “Did you paint all of these yourself?”
Sophie nodded slowly. “Yeah, I did.” The journalist smiled, retrieving her smartphone. “I run a small online arts blog. I love finding hidden talent in the city. Mind if I take a few photos?” Sophie hesitated, surprised. “Wait, really?”
For the next ten minutes, the journalist documented everything—the paintings, Sophie at her stand, and the sign explaining her mission. Then came the question Sophie hadn’t expected. “What’s your story?” So, Sophie opened up. She spoke about the hospital, the crushing bills, and her refusal to let her parents sink. The journalist took furious notes. “People should hear this,” she promised. “I’ll make sure they do.”
Sophie didn’t pin much hope on it, but the next morning, the atmosphere at her stand had changed. Pedestrians weren’t just walking by; they were stopping. A woman bought two paintings immediately. A young couple debated over which canvas to buy. By noon, she had sold more art than in the previous four days combined…
