You are pregnant, one day you are going to the park, your eyes catch something along the side of the road.

There, on a patch of uneven ground, lies a little boy, no more than four years old. His hair is messy, tangled into knots, and his face bears streaks of dirt. His clothes are torn and filthy, barely clinging to his tiny, frail frame. He looks far too small for his age, his limbs thin and his body curled into a tight ball.

A piece of soiled cloth serves as his makeshift bedding, offering no real protection from the cold earth beneath him. He is fast asleep, his little hands tucked under his cheek, his breathing shallow and quiet. The sight of him is heartbreaking, his vulnerability stark against the vibrant backdrop of the park.