For a second, his brain refused to understand what he was looking at.
A child.
Alone.
She couldn’t have been more than seven, maybe younger, though something about her face made age hard to measure. It wasn’t just the dirt streaked across her cheeks or the way her hair hung in uneven, tangled strands like it hadn’t been brushed in days. It was her eyes.
They didn’t belong to a child who had come in for help with something small.
They belonged to someone who already knew help might come too late.
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