The father entered first, tall and stiff, his shoulders hunched with tension, while the mother followed closely behind, one arm protectively around a small girl whose face was stained and red from crying. The girl couldn’t have been more than two years old, and yet her expression carried a weight that didn’t belong to someone so young; her eyes were red and glistening, as if tears were her constant companion.
The police station was quiet in that typical early afternoon lull: only the hum of fluorescent lights, the distant tapping of keyboards, and the low murmur of officers exchanging routine information could be heard. A flag hung near the counter, and a faded poster about community safety curled slightly at the corners. The receptionist, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and evident patience, looked up as the family approached and immediately sensed the tension clinging to them like a second skin.
“Good afternoon,” she said gently, clasping her hands on the counter. “How can I help you today?”
The father hesitated, clearing his throat as if he had trouble forming the words.
“We were hoping to speak to a police officer,” he said, keeping his voice low, as if he feared that even the walls could hear him.
The receptionist raised his eyebrows slightly.
—Can I ask what it’s about?
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