His name is Leo, a fragile little boy, only four years old. No one knows where he came from or how long he has been alone. His small frame is hidden beneath torn clothes, his eyes dull with exhaustion. He doesn’t speak much—perhaps out of fear, or perhaps because no one has ever listened.

You are walking with your three-year-old son, Daniel, through the park, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the ground. Daniel’s laughter fills the air as he swings your hand back and forth, but suddenly, he stops.

“Mama…” His voice is quiet, uncertain. He points toward the corner of the park.

There, huddled near a bench, is a little boy—Leo. His knees are pulled to his chest, his small hands gripping his tattered sleeves. His face is streaked with dried tears, his bare feet covered in dirt. He looks lost, scared, as if the world has already been cruel to him.

Daniel lets go of your hand and takes a small step forward. “Why is he sad?” he asks.