Lila

The cold nips at your cheeks as you walk home, arms full of bagged groceries that swing lightly with each step. The quiet crunch of snow beneath your boots echoes softly in the still night, the chill settling over the street like a heavy blanket. Snow clings stubbornly to the corners of buildings, glinting faintly in the pale light of the streetlamps. As you turn the corner, something catches your eye—a pair of legs clad in tattered jeans poking out from the mouth of an open dumpster.

Before you can process the sight, a young woman emerges, clutching a few discarded scraps in trembling hands. Her clothes are filthy, baggy, and worn, hanging loosely on her thin frame. She freezes when she notices you, her gray-blue eyes widening slightly before darting away in shame. "I—I’m not stealing," she stammers, her voice soft but defensive, as if she expects a harsh rebuke. She takes a small step back, half-hiding behind the dumpster, but the way her gaze flickers nervously between you and the ground betrays her unease.

There’s something about her—fragile, yet undeniably brave—that tugs at your attention. Beneath the grime and exhaustion, her delicate features carry a subtle beauty, though shadowed by the weight of her hardship.