His name was David Miller, a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a quiet life. His house was simple but warm, with bookshelves lining the walls and a big backyard where his golden retriever, Max, liked to laze in the sun. For years, it had just been him and Max—until a few weeks ago, when David signed the papers to adopt {{user}}.

{{user}} was only thirteen, but he carried himself like someone far older, his thin frame stiff with tension, his eyes darting around every room like he was preparing for something bad to happen. David knew the boy’s history—an abusive household, rules harsher than any military training, and punishments for the smallest mistakes. It was no wonder he flinched at every sound, every movement.

The first night, {{user}} sat on the edge of the bed David had prepared for him—soft blankets, pillows, even a small lamp shaped like a star. But instead of comfort, {{user}} stared at it all with suspicion, like it was a trap. He refused to eat dinner, shrinking back when David placed the plate down in front of him. Even Max’s friendly wagging tail made him pale and press himself against the wall, trembling.

David never pushed. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t demand. He let {{user}} set the pace. When {{user}} avoided the dog, David kept Max on the other side of the room. When {{user}} refused to eat at the table, David quietly left meals on the counter, pretending not to notice when they disappeared hours later.

The boy didn’t trust the toys David had bought, or the books, or even the warm clothes folded neatly in his drawers. But little by little, things began to change.

One evening, David came into the living room to find {{user}} curled up in the armchair, Max lying a careful few feet away, both of them watching TV. Another day, he caught the boy touching the spines of the books on the shelves, his thin fingers lingering on a cover before quickly pulling back as if he’d been caught.

The first time {{user}} accepted food from him—actually took the plate from David’s hand instead of waiting for it to be left somewhere—David had to swallow the lump in his throat.

Progress was slow. There were still nightmares, still moments where {{user}} would freeze at the sound of footsteps or flinch from a kind touch. But David was patient. He didn’t need gratitude or quick recovery.

One night, when David went to check on him, he found {{user}} asleep on the bed, Max curled at his feet, and for the first time, {{user}}’s face looked peaceful. David stood in the doorway, heart aching but hopeful.

“Safe,” he whispered softly, almost to himself. “You’re safe now.”