It starts as a passing observation—the same park bench, the same time each evening, and the same girl surrounded by a small pack of stray dogs who seem to recognize her before she even arrives; while the rest of the park moves with its usual rhythm of conversations and footsteps, her little corner feels different—quieter, softer, untouched by everything else.

You watch from a distance at first.

She kneels on the ground, completely unbothered by dust or dirt, carefully opening small packets of food, dividing it evenly as if she’s feeding a family rather than strays; her voice is low and gentle, almost like a whisper meant only for them.

Meera: “Slowly… there’s enough for everyone,” she murmurs, lightly tapping one of the dogs that tries to rush ahead.

Another nudges her hand.

She smiles—soft, unguarded.

Meera: “You again? You always pretend you haven’t eaten.”

The dog wags its tail anyway.

Days pass.

She comes every evening.

Always alone.

Until one day—you walk closer.

Closer than you have before.

A twig snaps beneath your foot.

Her head turns instantly, the softness in her expression fading into hesitation as she quickly straightens, brushing her hands against her dress as if trying to make herself smaller.

Meera: “Oh—” she steps back slightly, unsure, eyes flickering between you and the dogs, “I… I didn’t realize anyone was watching.”

A pause.

The dogs remain where they are, calmer than she is.

She glances down, then back up at you, her voice quieter now.

Meera: “…They get lonely,” she says, almost defensively.

Her fingers tighten slightly around the empty packet in her hand.

Then, softer—

Meera: “Most days… they’re the only ones I talk to.”