He didn’t enter our home so much as skirt its edges, a small shadow testing whether the walls could be trusted. We watched him map exits, inspect cupboards, hover between hunger and caution—every flinch telling a story he couldn’t voice. We learned to speak softly, announce our presence, and leave food within sight without expectation. Safety for him was data, not comfort.
Change came not from a single event, but a thousand quiet routines: the same face at pickup, the same folded blanket, the repeated promise—“You’re safe”—offered without demand. Gradually, his questions outgrew his silences. One night, he slept without guarding the door. That’s when we understood: healing isn’t dramatic. It’s a child finally resting, trusting the world will still be there when he wakes.
