The child stared at me with wide, blank eyes. I bent slightly, keeping my voice gentle as I repeated my question. “Where are your parents?”

No answer.

I tried again, slower this time and the girl tilted her head, processing the words. Something about her felt…off. Not scared, not curious like the many children I had been unfortunate enough to meet, just distant.

Maybe she simply didn't trust me.

Placing a hand on my chest, I introduced myself. “My name is Elena.”

She blinked. Still nothing.

I steepled my hands to mimic a house. “Where is your home?” I asked, frustration creeping into my voice. I had left home for a quiet walk, not to play detective.

She looked around, unbothered. Seven, maybe eight years old. She didn’t seem lost — just far away in a way I couldn’t explain.

Cautiously, I stepped forward and took her hands in mine. She let me. Something in my chest softened. If she trusted me enough to stay, to let me touch her, surely that meant something. But I didn’t know what to do. I was a psychology student, not a guardian angel.

I studied her — clean clothes, healthy face, steady breath. She wasn’t a runaway or homeless. Someone had to be missing her. I turned to retrace the path I’d come from. I din't think she had walked far—her shoes were clean. Based on that, I guessed where she might’ve come from and began walking, her small hand tucked in mine.

After about six minutes, her fingers twitched. I looked down. Her gaze had shifted — she was staring at a small, quiet house nearby.

A woman burst out of the front door, clutching a handkerchief, scanning the street. When she saw us, her eyes widened, and she ran.

“Abby! Oh, thank God! Peter, come quickly. Abigail is home!”

A man, presumably Peter, came rushing out, one boot on, the other in hand. The woman dropped to her knees in front of the girl, cupping her cheeks, sobbing.

Once she was satisfied that Abigail wasn't harmed in any way, she looked up at me, overwhelmed with gratitude. “Thank you so much, ma’am. We didn’t know what to do. We were beside ourselves with-” Fresh tears flooded her eyes and ran down her puffy face.

I gave her shoulder a reassuring pat. She nodded and guided the girl—Abby—into the house. As they walked away, Abby glanced over her shoulder at me, and for the first time, something flickered in those blank eyes. I didn't know what it was but I was just happy to see a little bit of something in her eyes. I smiled, waved.

Peter gave me one last lingering look before stepping inside and closing the door.

Months later, I was fixing a bowl of cereal in the kitchen with my sister in the living room watching the evening news when I heard her whisper, “That’s a terrible thing to do.”

“What is?” I put a spoonful in my mouth and plopped myself down beside her.

She pointed at the screen —a local news channel. A young reporter stood in front of a familiar house. My stomach flipped.

“I know that house.”

My sister eyed me in disbelief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, it's not very far from here. I took a girl back there in—” The words caught in my throat. There she was. The same child, those same empty eyes, now on the TV screen. The reporter’s voice echoed in my ears distant and haunting:

“Sex trafficking ring… young girls rescued… multiple arrests…”

I froze, the breath stolen from my lungs.

I had sent an innocent child back to her captors.