The girl stretched out her arm and pointed to the house at the end of the street. A normal-looking house with a front garden. Quiet, tidy, curtains drawn.

The sergeant went inside. The door was slightly open.

He only took a few steps — and froze.

On the living room floor lay a woman. Her face pale, no breath, no pulse. Everything was clear, even without words.

It was later discovered: the girl’s father, in a fit of rage, had killed his wife. Hearing the scream, the girl ran to the bedroom door — but didn’t enter. Then a voice — her father’s — through the panic and horror, whispered:

— Go. Run now.

He tried to spare her from what he had done. But he didn’t know she would feel it anyway.

She left. Alone. In her white dress. Onto the street — toward strangers, so someone would hear her.

And she survived. From her own father, who was supposed to be her greatest protector.