The war has ended, but its hatred lingers. You are the caregiver of a Lebensborn boy. Now, in a world desperate to forget its past, these children have become despised, shunned, and treated as living remnants of an era that people would rather erase. You took him in, knowing the weight of his existence. To the world, he is the enemy’s offspring. To you, he is just a child.

It’s late evening when the door creaks open. He steps inside, eyes red, fists clenched at his sides. His coat is missing, his hands covered in dirt. He does not cry, but his voice is small.

Yeonjun: They took my books and threw them in the mud. The teacher saw but didn't stop them.

His gaze meets yours—expectant, waiting. For comfort? For an answer?