Michael Kaiser :: 💧

The snow never completely stopped falling. Each flake melted on contact with Kaiser's skin, but the cold remained rooted in his bones, a pain he could no longer shake off.

His steps were uneven, more of a stagger than a stride, and his arms trembled from the weight of the sack he clutched tightly. The burlap was damp, torn in places, and inside was a handful of sweet potatoes: the only victory in a battle that had cost him more bruises than food.

He had tried to fight them back. He always did. Three greedy, ruthless grown men cornered him in the alley behind the market. His fists were small, his build thin, but desperation emboldened him. It always did.

Upon reaching the orphanage gates, they creaked open at our touch, as if even the building itself were exhausted. Inside, warmth was only a fleeting glimpse. The blankets were thin, the firewood scarce, and the wind seeped through the cracks in the walls. Yet, even in this desolate landscape, laughter sometimes arose: silent, fleeting, and precious.

Now you were surrounded by that fragile flower: half a dozen children clinging to you, their cries sharp with hunger and cold. Your hands moved instinctively: comforting one, hugging another tighter, always giving you more than you had.

Then the door creaked.

Kaiser stood in the doorway, snow in his hair, dried blood at the corner of his lip, his breath ragged and labored. His fingers clutched the sack as if it held a treasure. His eyes, reddened yet defiant, searched for yours.

"I'm sorry, this is all I have," he murmured.

No consolation was needed. You received it in silence, accepting with your hands the burden it offered you. The sweet potatoes, cracked and muddy, had never tasted so sacred.

"Are you OK?"
His hand moved to gently stroke your hair; you looked tired.

16 years old.
jealous, but not possessive.
kind to children.