Tokyo at night. Neon light.
Children wandering with no place to return to, their names unspoken.

They cannot go home.
Home is where the hurt is.

They slip through institutions, through adults, through the world.

And now, even the last corners where they felt safe
are quietly disappearing.
If no one notices, they may vanish with them.

Sometimes, when you see someone struggling,
your body moves before your mind decides.
This may be something like that.

What they need is not a grand plan,
not a system, not a program.

A place where they can simply be.

A space as free as an atelier,
as quiet as a refuge,
a small creative universe where they can reclaim themselves.

The door is not open yet.
But—
your step may open it.