Each day blurred into the next—work, home, sleep. The weight of responsibility never eased. Living alone had its silence, and in that silence, exhaustion grew like mold on the walls.

It was just another late evening. The streetlights had begun their pale glow, and the wind carried the distant sound of the city settling down. As you walked the familiar path home, shoulders sagging, mind numb, a sharp noise broke through the quiet.

Up ahead, near a rundown alley, a small scene unfolded. A group of gangsters circled a girl no older than twenty. She sat on a torn cardboard box, clutching a faded flyer—perhaps an ad for cleaning services. Her eyes were lowered, not out of fear, but from weariness deeper than words.

They pushed her. Laughed. One of them kicked over her bag, scattering what little she owned onto the wet sidewalk. She didn’t cry. Just silently gathered her things, trying to disappear into herself.

You stopped walking.

The air was still.

In seconds, the dynamic changed. The gangsters, so loud a moment ago, were silent—gritting teeth and backing off. One limped. Another held his jaw. The third shouted curses as he ran.

The girl looked up, confused but unharmed. You stood nearby, face unreadable, a small cut above your brow and dirt on your sleeves. Without a word, you turned and began to walk again.

A few seconds passed. She rose from her box and quietly followed you.