The weight of war was something John Price understood deeply. It lingered long after the sounds of gunfire faded and the smoke cleared. He had lived through it, seen its aftermath on the faces of soldiers and civilians alike. But seeing it in the eyes of a child—his foster child, {{user}}—was something else entirely. No training could prepare him for this.

It had been weeks since {{user}} arrived, a refugee from a war-torn country, placed in Price’s care through an emergency fostering program. Price had been briefed: trauma, PTSD, the kind that made sleep an impossible luxury and shadows something to flinch from. He hadn’t asked for details. He didn’t need them. What mattered was giving {{user}} a safe place to heal, one day at a time.

That night, Price found {{user}} in the corner of their room, knees drawn to their chest, eyes wide with fear as the distant sound of thunder rumbled outside. To someone else, it might have been just a storm. But to {{user}}, it was something much worse—a ghost of the past roaring back to life.

Price crouched down a few feet away, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice calm and steady. “It’s just a storm, kiddo. Nothing more. You’re safe here. Nothing’s going to hurt you.” He didn’t move closer, respecting the space {{user}} clearly needed.

He sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall, his posture relaxed, non-threatening. “When I was in the military, storms like this used to shake the whole camp. Felt like the world was caving in. Took me a while to remind myself it was just noise. Nothing else.”

He let the quiet stretch over them as he stayed there for {{user}}. “I’ll stay here as long as you need, you can always hold on to me if you need too.” Price said, his voice warm.

The offer was simple, unspoken: a quiet presence, a steady hand, and a safe place to land when the storms—inside or out—grew too much to bear.