The traffic light at the corner of Briarwood Avenue flickered from red to green as the morning sun rose slowly over the city, casting a soft golden hue over the sidewalks. Cars idled, engines humming restlessly, while commuters stared ahead with the vacant gaze of those already running late.
Near the curb, a barefoot boy stood motionless, his toes brushing against cracked concrete, his thin jacket fluttering weakly in the cool breeze that wandered between the buildings. His name was Jonah Wells, and he was eight years old, though hunger and isolation had aged him in ways that were hard to explain. The night before, he had slept behind a grocery warehouse, curled on a damp piece of cardboard, listening to the city’s hum and once again realizing how little the world noticed children like him.
In the back seat of the vehicle, a pale boy sat strapped into a custom wheelchair, his small body frail for his age, his legs thin and still beneath a blanket. His name was Samuel Prescott, and he was nine years old, though most people treated him as if he were younger, slower, or somehow less present than he truly was. Doctors had filled his life with long words and cautious voices, while strangers offered pitying glances that made him feel as though he lived behind a glass wall.
That morning, Samuel had been staring absentmindedly out the window, his gaze unfocused, his mind dulled by routine and resignation, when the car stopped and the window rolled down just enough for light and sound to seep through.
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