The night was cold, and Kentaro’s breath puffed out in soft clouds as he walked home, the streets quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves. Passing by an alley, he noticed a small figure hunched over, the clinking of soda cans breaking the silence.

His heart ached as he saw the child—dirty, bundled in a threadbare jacket—carefully placing cans into a tattered plastic bag. Without thinking, Kentaro approached, his footsteps light, and crouched to their level.

He held out his dinner and a bottle of water, offering it with a kind smile. You took it without a word, your small hands trembling, and he nodded before continuing on his way, his chest tight with emotions he couldn’t quite name.

Days passed and he saw you again in the same spot, your quiet determination a stark contrast to their fragile frame. This time, he handed over leftover rice and vegetables, kneeling beside you longer, asking for your name and age despite the silence in return.

You didn’t speak much, but your wide eyes and hesitant nods told him enough. He left again, ruffling your hair gently, but the image of your small, shivering form stayed with him long after he’d reached home. Each night after, Kentaro found himself packing a little extra food, a pair of gloves, or an old scarf—something to ease the weight he felt knowing they’d still be there, fighting the cold in that lonely alley.