I just brought him home.
As he stepped out of the shelter, he clutched a ragged little toy — the only thing he had left in this world to hold onto.
He hasn’t let go. Not yet. The fear is still too fresh.
You can see his story in the way he curls up so tightly, in the way he flinches when the world gets too loud.
Sometimes he trembles. Sometimes he disappears under the couch.
But when he rests his head on my lap, I hear it — not in words, but in his heart:
“Please let this be the place I get to stay.”
And I tell him:
Yes. This is home.
From here on out, you’ll never face the dark alone again.
You’ll have toys. You’ll have peace. You’ll have love.
And you’ll have me.
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