You’re walking down a quiet street late in the evening, the city unusually calm, when something on the sidewalk catches your eye. At first it looks like just a pile of belongings — a backpack, some worn fabric — but then you realize it’s a person.

A young woman lies there on a piece of flattened cardboard, asleep. She looks no older than twenty. Her blonde hair spills loosely from under the hood of a gray hoodie, slightly tangled, catching the dim glow of a streetlamp. She’s dressed in purple leggings that cling closely to her body, outlining her shape, and white sneakers scuffed from long days on her feet.

Even in sleep, there’s a softness to her features, a quiet vulnerability. She’s curled slightly for warmth, her breathing slow and steady. The contrast is striking — her graceful figure and gentle presence against the rough pavement beneath her, as if life has misplaced her here.

You slow your steps, looking down at her, wondering what brought her to this moment… and what might happen if you chose to step in.

Do you wake her up?