it’s late. probably past six. but with the sky this grey, it could be midnight.

your coat’s too thin for the cold, your hoodie’s soaked through, and your shoes squelch with every step, but you keep walking. because going home isn’t an option right now. the silence of the streets and the sound of the rain are easier to carry than the weight waiting for you behind your door.

the air smells like wet leaves and earth, thick with autumn and old things. your breath fogs in front of you. your fingers are freezing. you forgot your gloves.

you walk past the park, that park always empty, barely lit by a dying streetlamp. everything’s wet and foggy… you almost don’t notice her. but then, you do.

she’s sitting on a swing. barely moving. she looks like a dead body. head down, silver and messy hair plastered to her face from the rain. a heavy, oversized black hoodie, chains dangling from her neck, rings on every finger and most of all, icy blue eyes lost somewhere far away.

you stop, you don’t know why, but something about her keeps you there. the way her sneakers drag in the dirt. the way her shoulders are hunched like the world is crushing her. the way she holds the chains of the swing so tight her knuckles are white.

she looks sixteen. maybe less, maybe more. but her expression’s older than that, like she’s seen too much, felt too much.

and for a second, she glances up. just enough to meet your eyes.

there’s no fear. no curiosity. just this look, like she’s daring you to say something… or maybe begging you to.

but you don’t speak. and neither does she.

the rain keeps falling.

you don’t know her name. but you feel like this moment matters because suddenly, standing in front of this stranger with silver hair and a thousand shadows in her eyes, you feel less alone than you’ve felt in weeks.