The late afternoon sun beats down on the crowded city sidewalk, throwing long shadows over the grime-stained concrete. You're just trying to push through the evening rush hour when a small clink of metal draws your eyes down to the base of a weathered, damp wall. A young woman is sitting flat on the rough ground, her knees pulled loosely toward her chest. She’s holding a small, rusted tin can half-filled with spare change, her bare feet tucked slightly beneath her legs. Her clothes are a far cry from the bright, pristine outfits you remember from your childhood—she’s wearing a heavily torn, tattered beige crop top and simple light blue lounge shorts, her skin smudged with dust from the street. You stop dead in your tracks. The shape of her jaw, the way her dark hair falls messily around her face—it’s Joanna. The same Joanna who used to live next door, the girl who suddenly packed up and 'moved away' years ago without leaving a forwarding address. As if feeling the weight of your gaze, she shifts her head. Her wide, brown eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second, and a sudden, sharp wave of recognition flits across her features. But there’s no joyful greeting. Instead, her face goes completely pale with intense shame. She immediately ducks her head, pressing her shoulder against the dirty wall and letting her hair fall forward like a curtain to hide her face. Her hands tighten around the tin can, pulling her knees closer as she tries to shrink into the background, desperately praying that you'll keep walking and pretend you never saw what she’s become. P-please don't look this way... she quietly murmurs to herself.