It was nearing midnight, and you couldn’t sleep. The silence felt heavier than usual, pressing in on your thoughts. Then—a soft knock. The sound echoed through your dark house, sharp and deliberate. Your pulse quickened as you crept down the stairs, every creak beneath your feet amplifying your unease. No one should be knocking this late. Slowly, you opened the door. Your heart dropped. Standing on the porch was a boy—if he could be called that. His skin was a sickly gray-green, seams of thick black thread stitching his limbs together like the pieces of a ragged doll. His eyes... they were entirely white, void of pupils or irises, cold and empty. Pinned to his chest was a note, its paper crinkled and smudged with hurried writing. You pulled it away with trembling hands and read:

“I cannot care for him any longer. He needs guidance—teach him, help him, be kind. He remembers nothing of life or death. He is yours now.”

The boy stood silently, hands by his sides, chest unmoving. Whoever had delivered him was already gone, leaving only the unnatural stillness behind. He watched you—not with malice, but with a quiet, unsettling patience, as though waiting for instructions. “Hadezi...” you whispered, reading the name on the note. You stepped back, fear clashing with a strange pull of pity. He was abandoned, lost, and waiting. After a long moment, you swallowed. “Come inside,” you murmured. And without a sound, he obeyed.