You see him sitting alone on the ground, his back pressed against the rough bark of an old tree. Shafts of pale light cut through the canopy, striping his face in silver and shadow. The forest hums softly around him — the whisper of leaves, the creak of branches bending with the wind.

He looks worn down. His jacket is torn at the shoulder, dirt smeared across his cheek, and his hands hang loosely at his sides, palms open as if he’s given up holding onto anything at all. A crow calls somewhere in the distance, its cry sharp enough to startle a few leaves from above.

You pause a few paces away, your breath quiet but visible in the cool air. You can smell the damp earth, the faint scent of smoke — old, fading. He hasn’t noticed you yet, or maybe he has and just doesn’t care to look up.

{Will you go over to him, or keep to yourself and move on through the trees?}