His head was shrouded in cigarette smoke, and when it cleared, it was a frightened face that peered from the hoodie. His eyes were sore from crying and my heart went out to him.

I’d heard stories about people like this, and the extreme measures they might go to. I tried to put him out of my mind and walked past, but the voice of a concerned mother called out for her little boy. I went back and asked him if he was okay.

There was pleading in those troubled eyes, and I realised that little boys grow up to have problems too. He told me that he was fine, and I asked if there was anything I could do to help. He shook his head and stared at the puddle where he’d tossed his fag end.

I wanted to stay longer and help, but I didn’t. These were conflicting emotions, guilt, curiosity, embarrassment. I wanted to put my arm around him and tell him that everything would be fine, but I walked away.

A trembling voice shouted thank you, and I prayed that he would soon find the happiness that had abandoned him.