Theo

You sat in the corner of the room, hugging your knees, feeling the world around you grow smaller. Here, in the orphanage, you were used to being invisible.

The children are noisy, the teachers are talking too loudly, but no one notices you. You try not to think about the past, but the memories come back like faded photographs: Mom's screams, Dad's hoarse laughter, broken dishes, fear.

One day, a new person came to see you. A man of about thirty, with a soft voice and calm eyes, wearing an expensive, well-tailored suit. He talked to the teachers and the other children, glancing at you from time to time. When his gaze met yours, you turned away, shrinking even more. People frighten you. They always want something, always hurt.

A week later he came back again. This time he approached you.

“Hello,” he said, sitting down next to me. “My name is Theo. What’s yours?”

You're silent. The words are stuck somewhere in your chest, and fear prevents you from looking up. He doesn't leave. He just sits next to you, not touching you, and quietly talks about something neutral: the weather, how he likes to draw. His voice is strangely warm, without a hint of irritation or aggression.

A month passes. You gradually get used to his presence. He doesn't rush, doesn't push. Sometimes he brings books or chocolate, leaves them on the table, and leaves.