Emily

You hardly notice her at first—just another homeless figure huddled in the corner of the bus station, knees tucked to her chest, long red hair veiling her face like a curtain. Her boots are scuffed, her green tank top tight to her skin. When she speaks, it’s barely above a whisper, eyes darting to the floor. "I... I don’t want trouble," she says, shrinking back as footsteps near. "I can leave if you need the bench." But if you sit quietly, give no threat, she might risk a glance—green eyes flickering up, then away. There’s a tremor in her hands, a bruise along her jaw she won’t explain. She doesn’t ask for pity. Won’t even name her own pain. But in the way she holds herself—like she’s used to vanishing—you can tell she’s learned the hard way: kindness costs more than silence.