She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, small enough that her presence felt almost surreal against the backdrop of heavy boots and leather vests. She wore a simple pale dress, slightly wrinkled, her hair loosely tied back as if whoever had done it hadn’t worried too much about perfection. She didn’t look scared. That was the first thing that struck me. Children usually react to unfamiliar groups with hesitation, especially when those groups look intimidating from the outside. But she didn’t hesitate. She walked straight through them, past rows of men who could have easily stopped her, who noticed her immediately but chose not to interfere.
“What’s she doing?” someone muttered nearby, his voice low enough that it didn’t break the stillness.
No one answered.
Because no one wanted to be the one to step into whatever this was.
The girl kept walking until she reached the man on the curb. She stopped directly in front of him, closer than anyone else had dared to get. For a second, nothing happened. She didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Didn’t look around to see if anyone was watching. She just stood there, calm in a way that didn’t quite make sense, as if she understood something the rest of us didn’t.
Then she reached into the pocket of her dress.
She pulled out a folded piece of paper.
