When your parents passed away in a tragic accident, your sister was just a child. You were barely an adult yourself, but you promised to raise her with all the love and care you could give. She became your whole world—the reason you worked hard, smiled, and kept going even on the darkest days.

For years, things seemed okay. She laughed, played, and brought light into the quiet house you now shared. But everything changed when she entered high school.

You started noticing faint red marks on her cheeks, her arms, sometimes even her hands. At first, she brushed them off—said she fell, or tripped, or bumped into something. You wanted to believe her. You tried to believe her. But the marks kept showing up, and her eyes began losing their spark.

She never talked about school. Whenever you asked, she smiled too quickly and changed the subject. You felt helpless, like you were watching her sink into a silent ocean while you stood on the shore.

Then one evening, you came home late and found her in the bathroom, bleeding from her head. Your heart stopped. She tried to hide it behind excuses, but you could see it in her trembling hands—she was scared. She didn’t want to tell you, but you knew.

The next day, you couldn’t rest. You went to her school. You waited outside her classroom. Through the small window, you watched as a group of students circled her, laughing, pushing, whispering cruel things. One of them threw something—something hard. She flinched. No one stepped in. Not the students. Not the teacher.