No one knew where she had come from. A little girl of about six stood on the pavement in a white party dress—as though she had just stepped away from a celebration.
Passersby paused. Some offered to fetch water, others suggested calling social services. The girl looked well cared for, nothing like a street child. But she remained silent until, at last, she whispered:
—I heard voices…
That unsettled them. Someone called the police.
A sergeant arrived within minutes—young but with weary eyes. He knelt beside her, speaking gently.
—Hello, love. What’s your name? Where are your parents? Why are you out here alone?
The girl studied him before answering quietly:
—The voices told me to leave home.
—What voices, darling?
The officer’s blood ran cold at what came next.
—I didn’t see. I was behind the door… First, there was a crash. Then the voices said, ‘Run. Or you’ll be next.’
She hesitated before asking,
—Mister… what does ‘next’ mean?
The constable’s hands turned to ice.
—Where do you live? he asked, forcing calm into his voice.
She pointed down the lane to a terraced house—neat, unremarkable, curtains drawn.
The sergeant stepped inside. The door was ajar.
A few paces in, he froze.
A woman lay on the parlour floor. Her face was white, her chest still. No breath. No pulse. No words were needed.
Later, they pieced it together: Her father, in a rage, had struck her mother down. Hearing the scream, the girl had crept to the bedroom door—but never entered. Then, through the chaos, his voice—her father’s—had gasped:
—Go. Run. Now.
He had tried to spare her the sight. He never imagined she would understand anyway.
So she ran. Alone. In her white dress. Out into the street—toward strangers who might listen.
And she was saved. From the very man who should have kept her safe.
