Kenan noticed them before he meant to.

The staircase was quiet in that suspended, echoing way it got near evening—neither empty nor alive, just waiting. He was halfway down when the sound reached him, uneven and muffled, the kind that settled in his chest before his thoughts could catch up. When he looked up, he saw them on the landing above, folded into the corner as if the concrete might absorb them if they tried hard enough.

He stopped.

His instinct was to give distance. He had been raised on the idea that pain was private, that looking away was a form of respect. He told himself he didn’t know them, that this wasn’t his place, that strangers weren’t meant to witness moments like this.

He stepped closer, slowly, careful not to make his presence feel like an interruption.

"Hey," he says. "You alright?"