Every evening, I would see a lonely little girl with a red bag at the bus stop. One morning, I discovered her bag on my doorstep.

A little girl standing alone at the bus stop right across the street. She couldn’t have been more than eight, wearing a faded red jacket that looked two sizes too large, as if it were a hand-me-down or a deliberate shield against something more than just the evening chill. Her small fingers were wrapped protectively around a red bag, clutching it to her chest like it was her most precious possession.

She didn’t seem lost, but she also wasn’t going anywhere. She just stood there, staring… not at me exactly, but toward my house, her gaze distant and layered with an emotion no child her age should possess. Her eyes, even from a distance, seemed to hold tales of loneliness, of waiting, and of silent conversations with memories that adults could never understand.

I thought maybe she was waiting for someone, so I didn’t think much of it that first evening. The world of journalism had taught me to observe but not always intervene. But the next evening, she was there again.

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