The park felt strangely hushed for that hour of the afternoon.
Pale amber light seeped gently through the towering oak branches, casting elongated shadows across the deserted promenades.
A light wind stirred the foliage, bearing the faint echoes of children’s laughter from some distant place—too remote to reach the woman perched solitarily on the weathered timber bench.
She leaned forward, her posture slumped as if an invisible burden pressed heavily against her spine.
Clutched in her arms, swaddled in a thin, frayed blanket, was an infant.
The woman appeared no older than twenty-nine, yet fatigue had etched deep lines into her features. Her hair was matted and neglected, messy locks draping over her face.
Her garments were soiled, slightly shredded at the hems, as though life itself had been tearing at her from every side. Faint contusions colored her skin—turning yellow at the margins, yet still strikingly evident.
Tears traced silent paths down her cheeks.
She made no effort to brush them away.
