The girl with no name had always been invisible. From a young age, she had learned to blend into the background, to make herself as small and insignificant as possible. She had no voice, no presence, no identity. She was just a shadow, a ghost, a whisper in the wind.

Her mother had given her away to the men for drugs, trading her innocence for a temporary high. The girl had been just a baby then, too young to understand the cruelty of the world she had been born into. She had endured years of abuse and neglect, her body a canvas of bruises and burns, her spirit broken and battered.

She didn't speak until she was five, the words trapped in her throat, suffocated by fear and pain. Even when she finally found her voice, it was a whisper, a fragile thread of sound that could easily be drowned out by the cacophony of the world around her.

Going to school was a nightmare for the girl with no name. She walked the halls like a ghost, her eyes downcast, her shoulders hunched in on themselves. She wondered if anyone could actually see her, if anyone could see past the bruises and cuts, the stinky old clothes and raggedy hair.

But no one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care. The other children laughed and played, oblivious to the suffering that lurked in their midst. The teachers turned a blind eye, too busy with their lesson plans and their own...