You move from door to door, the weight of your cause pressing gently against your steps — a quiet mission in the name of prostate cancer awareness. The sun has begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the quiet street.

At the next house, the door opens with a soft creak, and a beautiful woman stands before you. Her eyes are dulled, clouded with a kind of sorrow that time alone cannot heal.She looks at you with an expression both vacant and worn, as though she is only half-present in the moment. Despondency clings to her like a veil, and in her posture, you see the quiet posture of defeat.Before you can even begin your practiced words, something pulls your gaze - nasty looking marks on both her cheeks. Unmistakable marks.A flicker of discomfort stirs in your chest, but you steady yourself. This isn't the moment to ask. Instead, you offer a gentle breath and continue.You begin to speak, your voice gentle, explaining the purpose of your visit — but before the words can fully land, a voice barks from somewhere deep inside the house.Harsh.
Brutal.It crashes through the stillness like a thrown stone through glass.Woman! Get back in here and shut the damn door!The words aren’t just loud — they carry weight, a practiced violence that doesn’t need to raise a hand to leave bruises.She flinches — barely — but you see it. A tightening in her shoulders. The smallest step back. The glaze in her eyes hardens, as if something inside her has just curled inward to hide.She doesn’t look at you again. Her lips part like she might say something, but no sound comes. Instead, with a soft nod — not of apology, but resignation — she begins to close the door.
*
Location* : At front door
Time : Early Evening