The Little Blue Tin

The coin made a bright clink as it dropped into the little blue tin.

Layla held her breath, hoping no one would look.

The lane outside the tea stalls was full of sounds. Metal spoons tapped glass. Oil hissed in a pan. A bicycle bell rang as someone tried to pass a man balancing plastic crates. Somewhere, a baby cried and a woman called over the noise.

Still, that coin in her hand always seemed the loudest thing.

“Quick, another one,” Selma whispered.

Layla tipped two more coins from her sweaty palm. She dropped them in one at a time.

Clink. Clink.

The little tin was painted blue with tiny white stars. A thin crack ran along one side, and a strip of silver tape held the lid. Every coin that hit the bottom made the crack ring sharper than it should.

Layla pressed the lid down, then tucked the tin back into the small cloth bag across her body.

“Did you count again?” Selma asked. Her eyes were bright. She leaned over the wobbly table, making the short leg scrape on the stone floor.

“After the sunset prayer yesterday,” Layla said. “I wrote it in my notebook. Two hundred and thirty taka.”

Selma’s mouth made a small “o”. “And the teacup?”

Layla turned her head. Across the lane, hanging from a nail in a wooden stall, a hand-painted teacup swung. The stall owner had tied a red ribbon through its handle. Blue flowers circled the sides, and tiny gold dots shone when the light caught them.

When she finished school, Layla came to this lane in Dhaka with her little blue tin. Every day, she and Selma sat at Uncle Amir’s wobbly table. They shared one glass of sweet, milky tea and counted how much closer she was.

For Mama.

Layla could still see Mama’s old cup in her mind. The one from Bosnia. White with a thin green line. It had cracked in their suitcase when they moved. Mama had picked up the pieces carefully, like she was holding something alive.

That night, Layla had heard soft sniffles from the other room. The next day, Mama drank tea from an ordinary glass without saying anything.

So Layla had started saving.

“She said four hundred taka,” Layla whispered. “For the cup and the saucer. I’m more than halfway now.”

Selma pulled a pencil from her braid and tapped it on the table. “If you save ten taka every day, that’s—” She frowned, moving her lips as she counted. “Many days.”

“Seventeen more if I am lucky,” Layla said. “Maybe less. Baba said I can keep the change from the vegetable stall when I run errands.”

She reached for the glass of tea between them. The glass was hot. She wrapped her fingers around the rim of the small metal holder and took a careful sip. The tea was creamy and sweet, with a hint of cardamom.

At the far end of the stall, Uncle Amir moved quickly between the big kettle and the row of glasses. Steam curled around his face. His grey beard was damp. He poured tea high so it made a frothy top.

“Layla!” he called. “You and Selma, no homework today?”

“Finished, Uncle!” Selma called back. She waved her pencil.

“Hmm.” He squinted at them, but his mouth twitched. “Then drink slowly. If you drink fast, I will charge you double.”

“You always say that,” Layla said, smiling.

The lane stretched in both directions, a narrow river of people. Men in light shirts, women in bright dresses, schoolchildren with heavy bags, office workers with ID cards swinging from their necks. Above, wires crisscrossed the sky like black spiderwebs. A scrap of blue showed between the buildings.

A tiny boy in a too-big cap hurried past their table, a tray of empty glasses wobbling in his hands. His sandals slapped against the damp stones.

“Nermin, careful!” one of the older boys at the counter shouted. “Your feet are smaller than the spoons!”

The others laughed.

Nermin’s ears turned red. He gripped the tray tighter and disappeared toward the back, where the washing buckets clinked.

Selma leaned closer. “He looks younger than my little brother,” she said.

“He is quick,” Layla said. She had watched him all week, darting between customers with tea, always trying to make his steps bigger than his legs.

She brushed a drop of tea from the table with her thumb. The wood felt rough. The smell of frying samosas drifted from the next stall, mixing with ginger.

The lane buzzed, but at their table everything felt steady: the wobbly leg, the half-shared glass, the blue tin resting against her hip.

Every clink brought the teacup closer.

A wind pushed down the lane, carrying a smell of wet dust.

Layla looked up. The strip of sky between the buildings had turned from bright blue to heavy grey. A low rumble rolled far away.

“Rain,” Selma said. She tilted her face up.

“That’s good,” Amir said from behind the counter. He wiped his forehead with a cloth. “Rain makes people thirsty. Thirsty people need tea.”

A fat drop of water plopped onto the table between the girls, leaving a dark circle.

“Uh-oh,” Selma said.

The next drops came faster. Soon the lane was full of tiny splashes. People pulled scarves over their heads. Some hurried under stall awnings. Others ducked inside doorways.

The rain tapped on the corrugated metal roof above them, a quick drumming sound. The air grew cooler. Steam from the boiling kettle rose in thick white clouds.

“Move the extra crates in!” shouted one of the stall owners.

The ground under the tables turned shiny. Little rivers formed between the uneven stones, carrying bits of leaves and a floating straw.

“More tea!” a man in a blue shirt called, sliding onto a bench. “Make it strong, brother!”

“Coming, coming,” said Amir.

He turned to the back. “Nermin! Four glasses, quick!”

“Yes, Uncle!” came a small voice.

Layla shifted so the rain blowing in from the side did not hit her back. A drop landed on her wrist, cold and sharp.

“Maybe we should go soon,” Selma said. “Before it floods.”

“One more minute,” Layla said. “I like the sound.” She listened to the rain on the roof, the hiss of water on the hot stove, the soft clinks of spoons.

Then a new sound cracked through everything.

CRASH.

It was louder than the kettle, the rain, the voices.

Everyone turned.

Near the counter, tea spread across the floor in a brown wave. Shards of glass glittered in it. A tray lay upside down, one handle bent.

In the middle of it all, Nermin stood frozen. His cap had fallen off. His hair was plastered to his forehead with rain and sweat. His hands were empty and shaking.

Four broken glasses lay in pieces around his feet.

For a heartbeat, the lane went quiet.

Then the voices came.

“Eh, look what the baby did!” shouted one of the older boys. He slapped his friend’s arm and pointed.

“Maybe he thought the floor was a bed,” another boy said. “Sleep, sleep!” He pretended to snore loudly.

Laughter burst from their group, sharp and mean.

Nermin’s chin trembled. He looked down at the mess, then up at Amir.

Amir’s face had gone dark. The lines beside his mouth deepened. He stepped forward, his sandals splashing in the spilled tea.

“What is this?” he shouted.

His voice bounced off the metal roof.

“I…I slipped,” Nermin whispered. His toes curled against the wet stone.

“You slipped?” Amir pointed to the broken glass. “These cups, you think they grow on trees?”

Rain pounded harder on the roof. The lane smelled of wet dust and hot tea.

Layla’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Her blue tin knocked against her hip.

“It was the floor,” Selma whispered. “Look, it’s all wet.”

But the older boys only laughed louder.

“Maybe he can pay with his cap,” one called. He flicked the cap on the floor with his shoe.

Nermin’s eyes filled. His shoulders hunched in.

“Enough games!” Amir shouted. He waved his cloth at the boys, but his eyes stayed on Nermin. “These glasses cost money. I told you, carry the tray with two hands. You never listen.”

“I’m sorry,” Nermin said. His voice broke. “Uncle, please, I will be careful. I will not—”

“You think sorry will buy new cups?” Amir snapped. “You think sorry will feed my children?”

A few customers shifted on their benches.

“Maybe he shouldn’t work here if he can’t even walk,” one of the boys said loudly.

“Then who will wash your cups, huh?” another boy said, grinning.

Nermin’s breath came in short, sharp pulls. A tear slid down his cheek, mixing with the rain.

Something twisted inside Layla’s chest. She glanced at Selma.

Selma’s hands were flat on the table. Her knuckles were white.

The blue tin bumped her side again. Clink.

Her savings.

Four hundred taka for the teacup and saucer.

“How much are the glasses?” she heard herself ask, though she had not meant to speak.

Her voice was small.

“Uncle,” she tried again, louder. “How much are they?”

No one turned.

Her mouth went dry. She wiped her palms on her skirt and slid off the bench.

Her knees felt wobbly, like the table leg.

Still, Layla stepped forward.

The ground was slick under her sandals. Tea soaked into the bottom of her trousers. She could smell the sweetness of it mixed with dust and glass.

“Layla, wait,” Selma whispered.

But Layla kept walking until she stood between the older boys and the small, shaking boy in the puddle.

The boys stared at her. One had a thin mustache. Another spun a spoon between his fingers.

“What are you doing, Bosnian girl?” the mustache boy asked.

Heat rushed up Layla’s neck. People always said it that way. Bosnian girl. Like she was made of something different.

She swallowed.

“You should stop,” she said. Her voice came out softer than she wanted. She cleared her throat. “It’s raining. The floor is slippery. Anyone could fall.”

The boys exchanged looks.

“Anyone?” the spoon boy said. He looked down at his dry shoes, then at her wet ones. “I am not falling.”

His friends chuckled.

“You are being unfair,” Layla said. She lifted her chin. “You are bigger than him.”

Mustache boy leaned forward until his face was close. She could smell fried onions on his breath.

“And you are small,” he said. “And foreign.”

Laughter burst from his friends again.

Layla’s chest tightened. The urge to step back tugged at her feet.

Behind her, Nermin sniffed.

Layla stayed where she was.

“You are hurting his feelings,” she said. Her words trembled, but they came. “And it was an accident.”

Mustache boy straightened. He looked over her head at Amir.

“Hear that, Uncle?” he called. “The Bosnian girl says we are unfair.”

A few customers snorted.

Layla’s ears burned. Her accent always came out thicker when she was upset.

Amir stepped closer. His feet pushed some of the glass aside with a crunch.

“Move, Layla,” he said. His voice was tight. “This is not your business.”

She turned toward him. “But, Uncle, the floor—”

He cut the air with his hand. “The floor I can mop. These glasses—” He pointed at the shards. “—I must pay for. Talking will not fix them.

“Go sit,” he said. “Drink your tea. Let me handle my stall.”

Behind her, the boys chuckled again. One of them mimicked in a high voice, “You are hurting his feelings.”

Layla’s stomach twisted. Her cheeks felt hot and cold.

She stepped back. Her sandals slid. Selma reached from the table and caught her wrist.

Nermin’s shoulders drooped lower.

“Please, Uncle,” he whispered. “I will clean everything. I will not eat lunch. I will—”

“Enough,” Amir said. He pressed his fingers to his forehead. “I do not have time for this.”

He looked at the mess, then at the customers waiting. His jaw worked.

Layla sank back onto the bench. Her heart thudded. The blue tin pressed against her hip.

Her words had slid off everyone like rain off the roof.

Selma’s shoulder brushed hers. “You tried,” Selma whispered.

“I sounded silly,” Layla said. She stared at the broken glass. One piece caught the light and flashed.

Outside, the lane had turned into a sheet of rippling water. People hurried past, splashing.

At the counter, the boys kept talking, now about a cricket match. Every few seconds, one of them glanced at Nermin and smirked.

Nermin knelt in the tea, picking up glass with shaking fingers. His breath came in little jerks. His bare toes were pale from the cold water.

The sound of his sniffles slipped between the louder noises and curled around Layla’s heart.

She could not just sit.

Layla leaned toward the counter, where a metal tin sat beside the kettle. It was Amir’s money tin. The lid was dented. A few notes and coins peeked from under it.

“How much are the glasses, Uncle?” she asked again, forcing her voice steady.

Amir did not look up. He was already pouring new tea for waiting customers. “Too much,” he said. “Forty taka each.”

He slammed a glass down.

Layla counted quickly. Four glasses. One hundred and sixty taka.

Almost all her savings.

Her hand went to her bag. She could feel the round shape of her tin through the cloth.

Not yet, she told herself. There must be another way.

She turned to Selma. “We can help,” she whispered. “If Uncle has more customers, he will earn more. Maybe he will not be so angry.”

Selma’s eyes flicked to the crowded lane, then back. “How?”

“We tell people to come,” Layla said. “We can wipe tables. We can carry tea. We can make it the busiest stall.”

Selma bit her lip, then nodded. “I can shout loudly,” she said. “My brothers say my voice is like a bus horn.”

Layla let out a small breath. “Good,” she said. “We need a bus horn.”

They slid off the bench.

“Uncle,” Layla said, stepping toward the counter again, careful to avoid the glass where Nermin was still cleaning. “Let us help.”

Amir glanced at them. “Help?”

“We will bring more people,” Selma said quickly. “If many people come, you will make more money. Maybe you can forget some of the glasses.”

Amir’s mouth pressed into a line. He looked at the rain outside, then at the few customers under his awning.

“You are small,” he said. “You will slip.”

“We will be careful,” Layla said. “Please.”

He hesitated. The kettle whistled. One of the waiting men cleared his throat.

“Fine,” Amir said at last. “But do not get under my feet. If you bring me ten new customers before the sunset prayer, I will…think.” He waved a hand at the broken glass. “Now move.”

Layla’s heart gave a little jump. Ten.

She grabbed a cloth from the end of the counter. It was damp and smelled of soap.

“Come,” she said to Selma.

They stepped out from under the awning into the edge of the rain. Cool drops dotted their sleeves. The lane was a blur of umbrellas, plastic sheets, and hunched shoulders.

“Tea! Hot, sweet tea!” Selma shouted. Her voice cut through the rain. “Come inside, you will catch a cold!”

A group of office workers in light blue shirts hurried past. One of them slowed at the smell of cardamom.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Yes, brother!” Layla said quickly. “Very hot, very good.” She pointed to Amir’s stall. “Best in the lane.”

He hesitated, water dripping from his hair, then laughed. “All right, little sellers,” he said. “You win.” He waved to his friends, and they ducked under the awning.

Two new customers.

Layla’s chest warmed.

She and Selma rushed up and down the lane. They wiped rain from empty tables with the damp cloth. They called out to women waiting under other awnings. They smiled at men stuck in the middle of the lane as the water rose around their shoes.

“Tea will make you forget the rain!” Selma shouted to a man with a plastic bag over his head.

“Best samosas!” Layla added, pointing to the pan sizzling beside Amir’s kettle.

People chuckled. Some shook their heads and kept walking. Some turned. Bit by bit, the stools at Amir’s stall filled.

Layla’s throat grew dry from calling. Her sandals squelched with each step. Her hair stuck to her forehead.

At one point, she slipped slightly, her foot skidding on a smooth stone. Her arms flew out. The cloth in her hand slapped against a man’s wet sleeve.

“Sorry!” she gasped.

He laughed and patted her head. “Careful, little one,” he said. “You will end up like that boy.” He nodded toward Nermin, who was now behind the counter, carefully pouring tea with both hands.

Layla swallowed and straightened. “Come sit,” she said. “We have space.”

He shrugged and followed.

Back and forth, back and forth. They lost count of how many people they called.

After what felt like a long time, Layla’s legs ached. Her arm burned from wiping tables. Her voice had turned scratchy.

“Maybe that is ten,” Selma croaked, rubbing her throat.

They slipped back under the awning, water dripping from their sleeves.

The stall was fuller now. Every bench had someone on it. Steam fogged the air. The smell of tea and frying dough wrapped around them.

Layla peered at the money tin on the counter.

A few more notes lay there now. Extra coins glinted.

But the tin still looked light.

Amir’s face had changed a little. The deep line between his eyebrows had softened, but his jaw was still tight. His eyes flicked to Nermin, then away.

He handed change to a customer and rubbed his forehead.

Layla’s shoulders drooped.

“We tried,” Selma whispered. “My voice is finished.”

“So is mine,” Layla said. Her words scraped.

Nermin stood very straight behind the counter, his small hands wrapped around the handle of the kettle. His eyes followed every movement Amir made, as if waiting for a signal.

When there was a tiny gap between customers, Amir turned to him.

“You broke four glasses,” he said quietly, but his voice still carried. “That is one hundred and sixty taka. I cannot forget that.”

Nermin’s fingers tightened on the kettle. “I… I can pay slowly,” he said. “From my wages. Please, Uncle. Do not send me away.”

The rain eased. Only a soft patter remained.

Amir shook his head. “If I keep you, you will break more. I cannot risk it.”

He reached for a cloth and wiped his hands.

“After today, you do not come,” he said.

The words fell into the stall like heavy stones.

Layla felt her breath catch. Her eyes flew to Nermin.

His mouth opened, then closed. His shoulders sagged. The kettle in his hands clinked against the counter.

Around them, the older boys went quiet.

Layla’s blue tin pressed against her side like a weight.

The sun was slipping lower, its light turning the wet stones soft gold. The lane glowed. Drops of water on hanging wires shone like tiny beads.

Inside the stall, the air felt thick.

Layla’s hand slid into her bag. Her fingers wrapped around the cool metal of her tin. The edge of the crack scraped her skin.

If she opened it now, the sound would be loud. Everyone would look.

Her heart pounded.

She thought of Mama’s face when she had picked up the broken pieces of her old cup. The way her fingers had shaken. The way she had been extra quiet at breakfast for days.

She pictured the hand-painted teacup across the lane, blue flowers and gold dots shining. She pictured putting it in front of Mama one evening, steam rising.

She had counted every coin. She had said no to sweets at school. She had walked the long way home to pass a shop that sometimes dropped a taka in the street.

Her dream sat inside this tin.

Her thumb rubbed the lid.

Beside her, Selma watched her hand. Her own fingers picked at a loose thread on her sleeve.

At the counter, Amir took a breath as if to say more. Nermin stared down at the wet floor. His cap lay forgotten on a stool.

If Nermin lost this job, what then? He had once told another boy, in a small bragging voice, that he bought his own school notebook now. That he helped his mother buy lentils.

Without this work, those things would disappear like steam.

A thought flashed through Layla’s mind: Maybe someone else will help.

She waited.

No one moved.

A spoon tapped against a glass. A chair scraped. The rain outside slowed to a drizzle.

Her hand squeezed the tin.

No one else was coming.

Her eyes burned.

She took a breath and stood.

The bench creaked. Selma’s hand shot out, fingers brushing her skirt, then falling.

Layla stepped toward the counter. Her feet felt heavy.

She set the blue tin on the wooden surface.

The sound was small but clear.

A few heads turned.

Amir looked at the tin, then at her. “What is this?” he asked.

Layla’s fingers shook as she peeled back the silver tape and lifted the lid.

The coins inside caught the low sun and flashed. Copper and silver, some shiny, some dull. Her weeks of saving, all in one small, clinking pile.

Her chest hurt, but her voice came out steady.

“For the glasses,” she said.

Then, before she could change her mind, she tipped the tin.

Coins spilled onto the counter in a bright, ringing rush.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The sound filled the stall. Conversations broke off. Spoons paused mid-air.

The last coin rolled in a small circle, wobbling, then toppled against Amir’s money tin with a soft tap.

Silence settled, thick and surprised.

Layla stared at the pile of coins. Her eyes blurred. She blinked hard.

“This is…how much?” Amir asked slowly.

“Two hundred and thirty,” Layla said. “Maybe…maybe a little more. I did not count today yet.”

“That is more than the glasses,” someone murmured.

Amir’s eyes moved from the coins to her face. “Why?” he asked.

Layla swallowed.

“So Nermin can stay,” she said. Her voice was quiet, but in the hush it carried. “He works hard. The floor was wet.”

A soft breath went through the stall.

Behind her, she heard Selma shift. Then a small clink joined the pile.

Layla turned her head.

Selma stood beside her, cheeks pink. Her hand hovered over the counter. “I only have twelve taka,” she said. “But…you can take it.”

Her coins lay on top of Layla’s.

At the far end of the counter, one of the older boys cleared his throat. He stared at the coins, then at Nermin’s thin shoulders, then at Layla’s blue tin, now empty on its side.

His hand went to his pocket.

A moment later, a few crumpled notes and some coins slid across the wood.

“For the new glasses,” he muttered.

“Eh, don’t show off,” his friend said, but his own hand dipped into his pocket too. Two more coins rolled over, bumping into the rest.

Soon, the pile on the counter had grown. It looked like a little hill of metal and paper.

A man in a neat shirt and ID card, who had been watching, stood. He adjusted his glasses.

“Bring me another round of tea, brother,” he said to Amir. “For everyone on this side.” He waved at the row of customers. “And some extra samosas. You can keep the change.”

He placed a note on the counter, its corner touching the pile of coins.

A low murmur moved through the stall.

The air, which had felt tight and hard, loosened.

Someone chuckled softly. A woman at the back smiled at Layla and Selma. The older boys shifted, their shoulders less stiff.

Nermin had not moved. He stood behind the counter, his eyes wide, his hands still wrapped around the kettle handle.

A tear slid down his cheek, but his mouth had opened into a small, disbelieving smile.

Amir looked at the coins again. His shoulders dropped.

He let out a long breath.

His gaze went to Nermin.

“Come here,” he said.

Nermin stepped forward, feet making tiny wet sounds.

Amir reached out and put a rough hand on his head.

“Stay behind the counter today,” he said. “No more carrying heavy trays until your feet learn to walk on water.”

A tiny ripple of laughter moved through the stall.

Nermin’s smile grew. He nodded quickly.

Amir turned back to Layla.

“Your mother will ask about your savings,” he said.

Layla’s throat tightened. She stared at the empty tin. Its blue paint looked a little duller without the coins.

“Yes,” she said. “I was saving for something.”

Amir studied her for a moment. Then he picked up a few of the coins and dropped them into his own tin with a soft chink.

“I cannot take all from a child,” he said. “These, and what the others gave, will cover the glasses.” He pushed some of the coins back toward her.

Layla’s hand stayed at her side.

“It’s okay,” she said. Her chest ached, but her voice did not shake. “You can use it. I can save again.”

A quiet settled around them, different from before.

Amir looked at her a second longer. Then he nodded once.

“May Allah bless your savings,” he said.

He brushed the coins into his tin with a sweep, then clapped his hands.

“Enough staring!” he called out. “Who is still thirsty? Tea is getting cold!”

Voices rose again. Spoons tapped. The stall woke up.

The sharp edge in the air had softened, like tea with milk.

The broken glass was gone.

Nermin had swept it up and thrown it into the bin behind the stall. Only a few faint scratches on the stone showed where the pieces had been.

The rain had slowed to a thin curtain. Outside, the lane glistened in the low sun. The smell of wet dust had faded. Now the air was thick with tea, fried dough, and ginger.

Layla sat back down at the wobbly table. The leg scratched against the stone as she shifted.

Selma slid onto the bench beside her, rubbing her throat.

A moment later, Nermin came over, carrying a tray almost as big as his chest.

On it stood three steaming glasses of tea.

He set one down in front of Layla, one in front of Selma, and then, after a tiny pause, one in front of the empty space on the bench.

He looked at the gap, then at Layla’s face.

“Can I…?” he asked.

Layla scooted over. “Sit,” she said.

Nermin climbed onto the bench, his wet sandals dangling. He picked up his glass carefully with both hands.

For a moment, they were quiet.

The tea steamed up, fogging the air between them. Tiny bubbles clung to the sides of the glasses. The metal spoon in Layla’s glass touched the rim with a soft note as she stirred.

Her little blue tin sat on the table between them.

It looked different now, lying on its side, its lid open and empty. The crack along its side seemed wider without the weight inside.

Nermin glanced at it, then at her.

“Thank you,” he said. His fingers tightened around his glass. “I did not want to go back and tell my mother I lost my work.”

Layla traced the edge of the tin with her fingertip. The metal felt cool.

She shrugged one shoulder, then took a sip of tea. It warmed her.

Selma dipped her spoon in her glass, then tapped it lightly on the rim.

Tink.

The sound was gentle.

Nermin copied her, his spoon making a slightly higher note.

Tink.

Layla smiled and tapped her own spoon.

Tink.

Three tiny sounds, bright and soft, floated up into the busy air.

At the counter, Amir shouted an order. Someone laughed. Oil hissed as more samosas dropped into the pan.

Layla looked at the blue tin again.

“Uncle,” she called.

Amir glanced over, a glass in one hand, kettle in the other. “Hmm?”

“Can we keep this here?” she asked. She nudged the tin with her finger so it made a small scrape on the table. “For tips. For the stall.”

Nermin’s eyes widened. He stared at her, then at the tin.

“For…for me too?” he asked.

“For whoever works hard,” Layla said. “People can put coins when they like the tea.”

She pushed the tin toward him.

Nermin reached out slowly. His fingers brushed the cool metal, then wrapped around it. He held it as if it were fragile.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Amir watched from the counter. His lips twitched. “Put it near the kettle,” he said. “Where people can see.”

Nermin slid off the bench, the tin cradled in both hands. He walked carefully to the counter and set it beside the money tin. The blue paint glowed softly in the low light.

For a moment, no one put anything in.

Then the office worker with the neat shirt finished his tea. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and flipped it into the blue tin.

Clink.

The sound was small but clear.

Nermin’s grin burst wide. He shook the tin just a little.

Clink.

A new, hopeful rattle.

Back at the table, Layla wrapped her hands around her glass. The heat warmed her fingers. She watched Nermin straighten his shoulders as he poured tea for a new customer, his movements careful and sure.

Selma leaned her head on her hand, her eyes half-closed from tiredness. “Your tin has a new job,” she said.

Layla took another sip of tea. The sweetness spread across her tongue.

She lifted her spoon and tapped it lightly against the glass.

Tink.

The sound joined the low hum of voices, the hiss of the stove, and the soft clink of a single coin in a blue tin on the counter.

She did not look at the hand-painted teacup across the lane.

Her eyes stayed on the tin, on Nermin’s small hands as he steadied it on the shelf, on the way his shoulders no longer hunched.

Steam curled up from her glass and brushed her face.

She closed her fingers around it, steady and sure, and took another slow sip as the spoons of three children tapped together in the warm, busy air.