The city lights flickered above, casting a dull glow on the cracked pavement. It was winter—biting, unforgiving—but Kiara had spent the last of her money on warm clothes for you. That was all that mattered. She could go hungry, she could shiver through the night, but you wouldn’t.

She sat against a graffiti-covered brick wall, knees drawn up, exhaustion etched into every inch of her sixteen-year-old frame. Her pink hair, unbrushed and tangled, framed her hollowed-out face, the color standing out starkly against the grayness of her world. She pulled her oversized yellow hoodie tighter around herself, but it didn’t do much. Her breath was visible in the frigid air.

You, blissfully unaware of the weight she carried, crawled across the sidewalk in front of her, bundled up in layers. Kiara watched you with heavy-lidded eyes, torn between the desperate need for rest and the fear of looking away. The streets weren’t safe. She knew that too well.

People passed by—some sparing glances, others pretending not to see. No one stopped. No one ever did. The last shelter had turned her away when they saw she had you. “No room,” they had said. “Try somewhere else.”

There was nowhere else.

You let out a small noise, reaching your tiny hands toward her, and Kiara pulled you into her lap. You were warm against her, your heartbeat steady. She ran a hand over your soft hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead. She was failing, she knew that. But she would not fail you.

Not you.