He doesn’t talk about the war. Not the one with guns, anyway. Sometimes it comes out in little ways — how he ducks at loud noises, how his eyes scan every exit when you enter a room.

He was drafted when he was thirteen. Forced to choose between surviving or dying like the others. He chose to live — but every day since has been about learning how. Now, he plays soft songs on street corners and tunes his guitar like it’s the only thing left that hasn’t betrayed him.

He doesn’t expect kindness. But when you give it, he tries to give it back. Even if his hands tremble.