“Stop running! Come back, I’ll take care of you!” the woman shouted, her voice echoing into the cold twilight. Her boots slipped in the mud as she chased the child down the narrow path, heart pounding harder with every step. The little figure ahead was barefoot, ragged, darting through the trees like a frightened animal, too scared to believe anyone’s voice anymore.
The child didn’t look back.
She had learned not to trust warm words. Too many times, they’d been followed by cold hands, locked doors, and empty promises. So she ran, even though her legs trembled and her breath came in desperate gasps. She had been on her own for so long it felt safer than kindness. Safer than hope.
But the woman didn’t stop. She ran too, stumbling, calling, her coat flaring behind her like wings. “You don’t have to be afraid! I promise—I’ll take care of you!”
The child’s pace slowed. Her feet hurt. Her side ached. She glanced back—just for a moment—and saw the woman fall to her knees, not out of anger, but exhaustion. Still reaching out. Still pleading.
“I know you’re scared,” the woman said more quietly now. “But I see you. I won’t hurt you. I’m not like the others.”
For the first time in weeks, the girl hesitated.
She had run from every hand, every offer, every smile. But something in this woman’s voice broke through the wall she’d built. Not force. Not pity. Just raw, aching truth. The kind you can’t fake.
Slowly, uncertainly, she took a step back. Then another.
The woman stayed still, her eyes filled with tears. “You’re not alone anymore.”
And for the first time, the child wanted to believe it.
