You walked down the street, lost in thought, when you saw her—sitting on the cold pavement, blindfolded eyes staring into nothing, a rusted chain wrapped around her ankle. A small tin cup sat in front of her, barely touched.

“They say I stole,” she said quietly, as if the truth might shatter. “But I’ve never even seen the things they accuse me of.”

People passed by, uncaring. But you couldn’t. Not after hearing her voice—tired, but still holding onto something. Hope, maybe. Or just the need to be heard.