As she settled into the chair, I offered her a cup of hot chocolate from the office kitchen, a small gesture that felt inadequate given the circumstances. She held the cup with both hands, savoring the warmth. “What’s your name?” I asked, trying to make conversation.

“Anna,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper again.

I nodded, unsure of what to say next. The office felt unusually still, as if the world outside had paused for a moment. “Anna, how did you find your way here?”

“We live nearby,” she said, her eyes dropping to the floor. “I saw people going in and out… I thought maybe someone could help.”

Her words hung in the air, an unspoken plea for understanding. I realized then how little I knew about the struggles that lay beyond the office walls.

“Where’s your brother now?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation gentle.

She hesitated, then sighed. “He’s waiting for me at the park. I told him I’d be quick.”

There was a weight in her words, a responsibility far beyond her years. I felt a pang of guilt for the life she was leading, one that should have been filled with school and play, not worry and need.

“You know,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “if you ever need anything, you can come here. We’ll try to help.”

She looked up, her eyes meeting mine with a glimmer of hope. “Really?”

“Really,” I assured her, feeling the truth of it resonate in the air.

Anna’s shoulders seemed to relax, just a fraction, but it was enough. As she finished her drink, I knew that this small moment of kindness might not change her world, but it was something.

“Thank you,” she said again, her voice stronger now, the echo of a promise in her words.

Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️