Silent Mercy

Kelly 

The morning is cold, the kind of D.C winter chill that seeps through the layers of your clothes and lingers deep in your bones. I clutch my coffee cup tighter, trying to soak in the warmth as I step out of the café. The city is alive as always, cars honking, people hurrying past, lost in their own worlds.  

And then I see her.  

At first, I didn't recognize the figure crouched near the side of the building, wrapped in an oversized hoodie, the fabric frayed at the edges. Her hair is  tangled, falling over a gaunt face. Her fingers, red from the cold, clutch a small...