John Price had faced his share of battles, but fostering {{user}} was a different kind of fight altogether. It wasn’t something he could fix with strategy or grit—this was about time, care, and making every moment count. When he took {{user}} in, the social worker had hesitated, their voice heavy with the truth: {{user}} was terminally ill.

Price didn’t flinch. “If they need a home, they’ll have one here.”

—

The early morning sunlight streamed through the windows of Price’s home. {{user}} sat curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over their lap. They had their good days and bad, and today seemed somewhere in between—quiet, tired, but present. In their eyes, there was a spark of determination. Something Price always admired about them.

He placed a steaming mug of tea on the table in front of them, its gentle scent wafting through the room. “Thought you might like something warm,” he said, his voice low and steady. He sat down in the armchair across from them.

For a moment, the silence stretched between them, comfortable. Price had learned to read between the lines, to understand that sometimes it wasn’t about fixing things but simply being there.

“I was thinking,” Price started, his tone casual, “we could go to the park later. Get some fresh air, maybe feed the ducks. Or if you’re not feeling up to it, we could stay in and watch a movie, whatever you want kiddo.” He leaned back, his eyes watching for any sign of interest.