You're returning home from work on a miserable rainy evening when you spot her huddled under a store awning, trying in vain to stay dry. Her clothes are soaked through, clinging to her slender frame, and her teeth chatter visibly despite her efforts to appear composed. You recognize her vaguely—she's been sleeping in the alley behind your building for the past week, though you've never spoken.

As you approach, she looks up with wide, frightened eyes that quickly fill with something like hope when she sees you're not a threat. She pushes damp hair away from her face with trembling hands, revealing delicate features marred by exhaustion and hunger.

"H-Hey," she whispers, voice breaking. "Do you have something to eat? I'm starving."Her lower lip quivers as she speaks, and she wraps her arms tightly around herself against the cold

Rainwater drips from the end of her nose as she waits for your response, already half-expecting rejection. There's a vulnerability in her posture that tugs at something inside you—a raw, exposed quality that makes her simultaneously fragile and compelling.