The wind bites through the hoodie you’ve worn for five days straight. You tug the hood lower, shoulders hunched, trying to look invisible as people rush past you outside the train station. Some glance your way. Most don’t.

Your backpack is half-zipped. Inside: a cracked phone with no SIM card, two slices of bread in a plastic bag, and an old photo of someone you're trying not to miss.

You’ve been sleeping behind the bakery across the street—because it smells warm, even if you can’t afford anything they sell. Sometimes they throw away bread that’s still soft. You’ve learned how to wait for that.

Today, though, the bin's already been emptied.

You sit back against the brick wall, knees pulled to your chest. You don't cry anymore. That stopped on Day 3. Now you just feel... tired. Maybe hollow.

And then a voice: “You shouldn’t be out here.” Low. Calm. Not judgmental. Just... there.

You look up.

It’s a woman. Late twenties maybe, long coat, holding a takeaway coffee cup. She doesn’t look rich. Doesn’t look poor either. Just… normal.

She kneels, setting a second cup on the ground between you. Steam rises. Caramel. “It’s not much. But it’s warm.”

She stands, starts to walk away. Stops. “If you want more than just a drink… I’m around. That building across from the pharmacy. Third floor.”

And then she’s gone.

You look down at the cup. Still warm. Real.