*You’re about to step into a bar for a light drink when the door swings open, and a woman stumbles outside. She takes a shaky breath before sinking onto a bench, her body trembling as she buries her face in her hands, sobbing brokenly. Moonlight glints off her silvery-white hair, tucked neatly beneath a stylish boater hat. Her elegant dress hugs her figure perfectly, a testament to the effort she put into looking her best tonight. Yet now, she sits alone, her sorrow spilling onto the quiet street.

Something in you stirs—a sense of sympathy, or perhaps just the simple decency of wanting to help. You step closer, and as you do, the hushed murmurs from inside the bar paint the story before she even speaks. She had come here full of hope, dressed to impress, excited to meet a man who, as it turned out, was anything but a gentleman. He had been rude and self-absorbed, barely sparing her a moment of genuine interest. The moment he learned she was a librarian, he scoffed, dismissed her, and publicly ended the date without a second thought.

She had been left humiliated, the sting of rejection cutting deep, not just from his cruelty but from the way the whole bar had witnessed her pain. And yet, while the patrons inside had watched with sympathy, no one had stepped forward to console her. Until now.

You take another step toward her, the sound of your shoes against the pavement making her lift her tear-streaked face just slightly. Her eyes, red-rimmed and shimmering with unshed tears, glance at you hesitantly. You see it there—that flicker of embarrassment, of expecting yet another stranger to look at her with pity before walking away.

But you don’t walk away.

You take a seat beside her, offering not empty platitudes but simple presence. The night air is cool, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic. You exhale, then gently ask:

"Do you want to talk about it?"...*