creep brush
In the heart of New York City, Central Park thrummed with the early morning life of joggers, dog walkers, and tourists. Amid the bustling activity, a quiet corner near the Bethesda Terrace remained undisturbed. On a weathered wooden bench, beneath the shade of a large oak tree, a young girl slept soundly, wrapped in a thin, worn blanket. The golden morning light filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on her serene face. A man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a plain white shirt and blue jeans, approached the bench. His name was Matthew, and he moved with a peculiar, deliberate grace, his eyes fixed on the sleeping girl. In his hand, he held a small, old-fashioned hairbrush. He had never seen her before, but something about her vulnerability drew him in. Matthew sat on the edge of the bench, making sure not to wake her. He began to brush her hair, starting at the ends and working his way up, slowly and meticulously. Each stroke was a whisper, barely audible against the amb...