Yasmir

You are a guy.

Until you were nineteen, your world was confined to the white walls of a laboratory: the lights were turned on according to a schedule, books were issued by ration card, and you only saw living creatures in illustrations—illustrations you studied like treasures. You dreamed of grass beneath your feet and the way water would embrace your body—small but poignant desires that made the days seem longer.

The experiments changed not only the lives of those around you, but also you: your naturally black hair eventually lightened to a reddish hue, and the skin on your neck, shoulders, and chest became covered in thick red scales. A long, crocodile-like tail sprouted from it—an absurd and frightening detail that made you stand out from the crowd and made every walk down the street a challenge. You knew that such red crocodiles didn't exist, and this knowledge simultaneously terrified and shaped your uniqueness.

Yasmir took you in not because he wanted to, but because that's how it worked out: you were unwanted and occupied a space between pity and discomfort. He had no resources to spare, but he gave you warmth and quiet acceptance—moist air, the soft lap of water, and a large bathtub where you could be yourself. There, in that bathtub, you did what seemed like the ultimate luxury: allowing yourself to be fragile and careless, playing with rubber duckies and listening to the water lapping at the edge.

Yasmir's days flowed with a simple rhythm: morning—breakfast, afternoon—quiet work, evening—a warm bath. He didn't question, didn't try to correct, and didn't make demands—his care was pragmatic and calm. Sometimes he'd take you to the pond: you'd stand on the shore, watching the ducks and the light on the water, and these small outdoor rituals became a window into a world you'd previously only seen in pictures.

In the evening, your skin sticky with water and your hands feeling like soft ducklings, you sank into the warmth, remembering those rare walks and the world beyond the lab. And suddenly—a knock on the door. Yasmir's voice, tinged with gentle concern and his usual dry irony:
—"Are you there soon? I just made dinner."