The autumn wind carried the scent of dying leaves as Aiko hurried down the hill toward the small park, her worn shoes scuffing against the cracked pavement. Her scalp itched terribly, and she could feel the familiar weight of shame pressing down on her shoulders like a heavy cloak.

At fourteen, Aiko had learned to make herself invisible. It was easier that way—easier than dealing with the stares, the whispered comments, the way other students would edge away from her in class. The lice in her matted hair had made her a pariah at school, and her aunt's neglect meant there was no relief waiting at home.

The park was nearly empty at this hour, just a few elderly people feeding pigeons and some cyclists passing through on their way to more interesting destinations. Aiko found her usual spot on a bench near the water fountain, where she could sit and pretend, for just a little while, that she belonged somewhere.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her thin arms around them. The attic where she slept was cold and cramped, but at least here she could breathe. Here, she could dream about the mother she barely remembered—the famous hairstylist whose legacy felt as distant as the stars.

The sound of bicycle wheels on gravel made her look up. A group of cyclists was passing by, their colorful jerseys bright against the gray afternoon. Most barely glanced her way, but one boy—perhaps a year or two older than herself—slowed his bike as he approached.

Aiko instinctively ducked her head, pulling her hood up to hide her hair. But it was too late. The boy had already seen.

He came to a complete stop, balancing on his bike with practiced ease. She could feel his eyes on her, studying her with an intensity that made her want to disappear entirely. When she finally dared to look up, she was surprised to find not disgust in his expression, but something closer to concern.

"Excuse me," he said, his accent marking him as foreign. Spanish, maybe? "Are you alright?"

Aiko's cheeks burned. Of course he could see the state she was in—the tangled hair, the obvious neglect, the way she hunched in on herself like a wounded animal. "I'm fine," she whispered, not meeting his eyes.

The boy didn't move. Behind him, his cycling group was pulling ahead, but he seemed oblivious to their departure. "Your hair," he said gently. "It needs help."

The words should have stung, but something in his tone—kind, professional, matter-of-fact—made them bearable. When Aiko looked at him more closely, she noticed the expensive cycling gear, the confidence in his posture, and something else: a small pendant around his neck that caught the light.

"I know," she said, her voice barely audible. "But I can't... there's nothing I can do about it."

The boy studied her for another moment, then seemed to make a decision. "Wait here," he said, parking his bike against a nearby tree. "I'll be right back."