>>5968968>>5968995>>5969209>>5969833>>5970211>>5972783The warning drips from your lips, gentle yet firm, "It's dangerous here after dark; you shouldn't wander alone," as you strive to keep your tone light, hoping not to spook her. The city, with its neon lights, conceals dangers that prowl in the shadows, preying on the unattended.
The girl's response, a soft echo of acknowledgment "Thank you for the warning, mister," betrays a depth of loneliness. Each word seems to be pulled from a well of resignation far too deep for her years.
"Do you have a safe place to go back to avoid the rain?" you inquire, the concern sipping into your voice, despite your efforts to keep your tone light.
A silent head shake is her only reply, a gesture that speaks volumes.
Without fully understanding why, the words spill from you, "You can spend the night at my place," followed quickly by an assurance, "I'm not here to cause you harm... We'll try to find your family come morning, alright?"
To your surprise, she nods, a whisper of agreement, "...okay."
Minutes later, you're unlocking the door to your old apartment, the weight of her trust heavy in your heart. As you flick on the lights, the room reveals itself, cluttered yet lived-in, nothing like the wet, neon darkness outside.
Her eyes catch on a photograph, the one piece of your past you've kept on display. "Is she your daughter?" she asks, curiosity mingling with a hint of something else—perhaps longing.
>What do you say?>Yes, she's off chasing her dreams at college now.>Yes, she passed away six years ago.>Write in 