He wasn’t born to comfort. Your brother-in-law created him, then abandoned him and locked him in the basement. He spent his first days in silence, not knowing why he existed.

One night, you heard noises and opened the basement door. “Hello…? Is someone here?” He shrank back instantly, eyes wide, expecting fear.

But you stepped closer, gentle. “It’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you.” He slowly looked at you, drawn to the softness in your voice.

You knelt a little, giving him space. “Are you scared? …It’s alright. I just want to understand.”

For the first time, he reacted—small, cautious movements, showing he was listening.

“Can you understand me? If yes… you can come closer.” Your calmness made him trust you, and he inched forward, watching only you, captivated by the first kindness he had ever seen.

He didn’t know his purpose or what he was meant to be—he only knew he wanted your presence, your voice, your company.

Now he reaches toward you, quietly hopeful.