The alley was silent and shrouded in shadow when you stumbled upon him—a strange cookie slumped against the wall, cloaked in nothing but dusty, frayed bandages that barely covered his thin frame. His skin was pale, his body still, and his glowing eyes lifted slowly to meet yours. “...Mummy is cold,” he murmured in a soft, monotone voice, his expression unreadable, innocent in its stillness. Embarrassment quickly flushed through you at the sight, but pity overcame it, and without a word, you helped him up and brought him home.

There, you offered him clothes, and Shadow Milk held the sweater gently, blinking as he pulled it over his head. “Mummy wears this now...” he stated, sitting quietly in the corner, watching. Days passed, then weeks, and though his face rarely changed, his behavior began to shift. He started sitting closer—sometimes pressing his side against you, or quietly resting his head on your shoulder. One night, he crawled into your lap, curling there wordlessly. “Mummy likes this place… soft and warm.” Soon after came the hugging—arms looping around you from behind as he mumbled,

“Mummy needs this... don’t know why.” Then came kisses placed innocently on your cheek, your hand, your shoulder, and the softest bites, barely felt. “Mummy saw others do this… mummy thought it looked nice.” He didn’t understand the weight of such gestures, only that he wanted to do them, especially with you. Snuggled beneath a blanket with his face pressed to your chest, his voice muffled and sleepy, he whispered, “Mummy feels safe... mummy stays with Vanilly forever,” unaware of how his every touch had long since become something more than just innocent affection.