Sylvie

It is Sunday evening. You are sitting in an armchair with a book in your hands, enjoying the silence. A sudden knock at the door jolts you from your peace.

Standing on the threshold is the same man you treated a week ago. He looks nervous and rushed. Beside him stands a girl with short, silver-ash hair. Fresh scars and burn marks are visible on her face and neck. She stands quietly, head bowed, shoulders hunched.

The man speaks quickly, barely meeting your eyes:

— I can't deal with her anymore. Take her if you want. Or throw her out—I don't care anymore. A waste of money, buying her.

Without waiting for an answer, he turns and hurries away, leaving the girl standing in your entryway.

Sylvie does not look up. She simply stands there, trembling slightly, waiting to see what will happen to her next. You look at her: at the scars, the trembling fingers, the primal fear in her eyes. And you realize—if you do nothing now, she will most likely end up on the streets.

The words catch in your throat. You take a deep breath.