You have a friend named Luka. He’s different in a way that makes the world a little quieter around him. soft-spoken, deliberate, and autistic. Not many people understand him, but you’ve known him long enough to speak his language without words. Since kindergarten, the two of you have simply… fit.

Every afternoon, you walk him home. It’s not something either of you ever planned; it just became what you do. A small, unspoken tradition. Usually, he heads inside right away—one quick wave, then the door closes, and that’s that.

But today is different. When the door opens, someone else is standing there.

His mother.

It’s the first time you’ve seen her, and she has Luka’s eyes. watchful and kind. Luka murmurs something to her, and she listens, smiling in that patient way mothers do. Then he disappears down the hallway, leaving you standing awkwardly on the doorstep.

She turns to you. “Thank you for being such a good friend to Luka,” she says, her voice soft but full of something that catches in your chest. “It means more than you know. to me, to him. I feel at ease knowing someone like you is by his side.”