The father entered first. He was tall, his posture stiff with tension. Behind him came the mother, one arm wrapped protectively around their small daughter.
The little girl couldn’t have been older than two or three. Her cheeks were red from crying, and her eyes were swollen as if tears had become a constant part of her day.
The station itself was quiet, caught in the slow rhythm of a calm afternoon. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A few officers typed quietly at their desks while others spoke in low voices nearby.
Behind the reception counter sat a middle-aged man with kind but tired eyes. When he saw the family approach, he immediately sensed something was wrong.
“Hello,” he said gently. “How can I help you today?”
The father hesitated, clearing his throat nervously.
“We… we were hoping to speak with a police officer,” he said quietly.
The receptionist looked curious.
“May I ask what this is about?”
The mother glanced down at her daughter. The child was gripping the edge of her coat with tiny shaking hands.
When the father spoke again, his voice carried both embarrassment and worry.