A shadow fell across the small figure lying crumpled against the roots of an old oak. A tall man crouched down, his brow furrowed, a concerned line etched between his eyes. He wore a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his hands hovered, hesitant, as if afraid to touch something fragile.

Dean stepped closer, boots crunching on fallen leaves. He looked down at the small, still form—dirty clothes, scraped knees, hair matted with sweat and grime. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, softening the hard edges of his jaw.

The wind stirred the branches above, and for just a moment, the light shifted—casting a strange, quiet glow around the child’s still frame. Then it passed, leaving only the whispering of leaves and the heavy weight of an unanswered question.