He couldn’t explain the powerful urge that drove him. The bruise on the little girl’s wrist, the fear in her eyes, the hurried way she left everything demanded that he act. He needed to know.
He needed to be sure. Fortunately, Arthur caught sight of the small bus that Maya had climbed onto. He quickly got into his car and followed, keeping a safe distance so she wouldn’t notice.
The bus rolled through the busy streets of downtown, then gradually turned toward quieter, less-travelled areas. Streetlights grew sparse, replaced by patches of darkness and long shadows. Modern high-rises disappeared, giving way to rows of old, narrow houses pressed tightly together.
The bus finally stopped at a roadside station deep inside a run-down lodging district. The alleys were damp, with puddles glinting faintly under weak street lamps. Maya stepped down, clutching the food bag tightly to her chest, then hurried into a narrow alley.
Arthur parked discreetly around a corner, killed the engine, and quietly followed on foot, careful not to make a sound. The girl stopped in front of room number 12, an old wooden door with peeling paint. She knocked very softly, as if afraid to disturb anyone.
Across the way, an elderly woman with silver hair Mrs Rosa, around 60, cracked open her window and looked out with worried eyes. She glanced at Maya, then at the door to number 12, and gave the faintest shake of her head, a gesture heavy with helplessness. Arthur, hidden behind a crumbling wall not far away, watched every move.
The door to number 12 creaked open. A man stepped out. He looked pale, disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and menacing.
Thomas, about 40 years old, Maya’s stepfather. The stench of alcohol poured out of the room. Maya’s purpose was to bring food home to avoid being scolded.
Thomas’ purpose was nothing but to satisfy his hunger and cravings. Arthur’s purpose was to understand the situation and gauge the true danger this child was facing. Without a word, Thomas yanked the food-bag from Maya’s hands.
He tore it open and grabbed handfuls of food, shoving them into his mouth in frantic gulps, as if afraid someone might snatch it away. He never even looked at Maya, his eyes fixed only on the food. When he was done, he tossed the leftovers the part she had likely hoped to keep for herself onto the filthy floor with violent disdain.
You brought back this garbage again? Worthless. Leftovers from strangers? What’s so good about that? His voice was harsh, hoarse, from drink, as he cursed her, but he didn’t stop there. Thomas gripped Maya’s shoulders hard, forcing her to her knees, his eyes burned with rage.
If you dare breathe a word about what goes on in this house, you’ll regret it. His fingers dug in tighter, as if to crush the fragile resistance inside her. Maya shook with terror, tears brimming in her wide eyes.
She clutched her mother’s old handkerchief with both hands, desperate for a trace of warmth, a fragment of strength from that last keepsake. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn’t dare cry out. Watching this unfold, Arthur felt fury surge through him.
He couldn’t stand by any longer. Stepping out from his hiding place, he forced himself to remain calm and held out his business card toward Thomas. My name is Arthur.
I couldn’t help but notice the girl seems like she could use some help, he began, trying his best to approach peacefully. Thomas shot him a hostile, weary glare. His eyes narrowed as he sized up the stranger.
Who the hell do you think you are, sticking your nose in my family’s business? Get out before I call the cops. His slurred words dripped with menace. Without waiting for a reply, Thomas slammed the old wooden door shut, the sound echoing down the narrow alley.
Arthur stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the closed door, helpless anger welling up inside him. From the window across the way, Mrs. Rosa cracked it open again. Her voice came out in a sorrowful whisper, as though she’d grown used to such scenes.
Every night I hear her cry, that poor child. She’s been without a mother since she was just a baby. Arthur turned back to look at the door that had just slammed shut, then lowered his eyes to the floor.
Through the narrow gap before the door closed, he had caught a glimpse of Thomas’s corner table, an old report card, torn and ragged at the edges, its first pages ripped apart, lying among empty bottles and dirty dishes. If you were standing in Arthur’s place, would you have the courage to step forward, or would you turn away in fear? The torn report card, lying in plain sight on Thomas’s desk, haunted Arthur’s mind. He left the boarding house with a heavy heart, knowing that Thomas had not only abused Maya, but also robbed her of her future.
The truth was undeniable, Thomas really had forbidden Maya from going to school. Arthur couldn’t let this go on. But how do you reach a child consumed by fear, living under constant threats? He knew that a direct confrontation now could put Maya in even greater danger, even provoke Thomas into more violent outbursts.
He needed a careful approach, something gentle, patient, built on trust, one step at a time. The next morning, Arthur returned to the neighbourhood near the boarding house and asked around. He learned about a soup kitchen nearby that opened in the afternoons.
It might be the place Maya would go to look for food. So he decided to wait. Just as Arthur had guessed, on a chilly afternoon, he found Maya huddled on the steps of the soup kitchen.
She still carried that same worn cloth bag and clutched her mother’s frayed handkerchief tightly. Her head was bent low as she scratched a dull pencil across a scrap of paper, as if hiding behind it from curious eyes. Arthur didn’t approach her right away.
He found a stone bench a short distance away, sat down, and quietly observed her. He never stared directly, just glanced from time to time. His purpose was simple to let her feel his presence without feeling watched or threatened…
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