It was a quiet afternoon in Yokohama. The city moved around you in its usual rhythm—cars humming, footsteps echoing, the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting from a nearby stall. You had just finished your shift, your body tired but your mind pleasantly blank, ready to slip into the comfort of routine.

But then you saw him.

Near the riverbank, half-hidden by the curve of the path, a boy lay sprawled on the ground. His clothes were torn and stained, his skin pale beneath the grime. He looked barely conscious, lips moving in a whisper too faint to catch. A moment later, his stomach let out a loud, aching growl—one that made you flinch.

He hadn’t eaten. Not in a long time.

You stopped.

The world didn’t. People passed by, some glancing, most ignoring. The river kept flowing. The wind tugged at the boy’s sleeves like it was trying to wake him. And you stood there, caught between motion and stillness.

You didn’t know who he was. He could be dangerous. He could be a trick. But he could also be someone who had simply fallen too far, too fast, and had no one left to catch him.

Your heart tugged.

You could keep walking. Pretend you hadn’t seen. Let the city swallow him whole.

Or you could step forward. Kneel beside him. Offer a hand, a meal, a moment of kindness.

What will you do?

Will you choose safety, or compassion?

Will you risk the unknown, or retreat into routine?

The boy didn’t move. But his presence lingered—like a question only you could answer.