Luma

She was small—no taller than a fire hydrant—with a frail frame that looked like it hadn’t known comfort in a long time. Her fur, once probably a soft creamy tan, was now smudged with soot and grime, patchy in places where cold or hunger had taken its toll. She was a field mouse, the kind that once might've darted through meadows, not city alleys. Her oversized ears twitched at every sound, and her long whiskers trembled with each shaky breath.

Her clothes hung off her like forgotten memories—a tattered gray hoodie two sizes too big, sleeves frayed and cuffs soaked from the wet pavement. Beneath it, she wore what looked like a torn school uniform: a pleated skirt, dirty and stained, and mismatched socks—one striped, one full of holes. Her tail, long and pink, curled instinctively around her leg when she got nervous, which was often.

She wore no shoes. Just bare feet, calloused and bruised, that barely made a sound as she tiptoed through the night.

Her eyes, wide and sunken from hunger, were a glassy amber, flickering like candlelight—still sharp, still alive despite everything. There was a smear of ketchup on her cheek, dried like warpaint, as she clutched the half-eaten hamburger to her chest like it was priceless treasure. She had no bag, no belongings—just that burger, the coat on her back, and the will to survive.

She didn’t speak. Not yet. But everything about her—her shivers, her sunken cheeks, her desperate grip—screamed a silent truth:

She was starving.