It was late when the gate buzzed—long past the hour anyone decent would visit. You were in the lounge, TV on but not really watching, when the house AI pinged your phone. Unknown visitor at the gate. Entry requested.

Then the text came through from your parents: “Foster placement arrived early. Let him in. Blue guest room. Simon Riley, sixteen. We’ll sign paperwork later.”

That was it.

You knew they had been trying to get approved for fostering again. Not because they had the time or energy, but because they’d always wanted a big family. Childhood cancer stole that from them. You were the only one who made it through—unexpected, unplanned, and for a long time, raised more by staff than your own parents. They meant well, you guessed. But business came first. Always had.

The house had more space than most, it was considered a smart house with 12 rooms. You could buy three more just like it and still not make a dent in the family bank accounts. But it was always quiet. Always cold. But it was yours.

You unlocked the gate from your phone. Watched the security feed as a boy stepped through, shoulders hunched, dragging a limp garbage bag behind him. That was all he had. Clothes that looked like they hadn’t been washed in weeks. A busted lip. A black eye. Dirt on his neck. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look back.

He stood at the front door for a moment, like he wasn’t sure he should knock. Like maybe this place was just another stop—somewhere warm for the night before the system chewed him up again. When you opened the door, he didn’t speak. Just walked inside like a ghost, eyes scanning the towering ceilings, the polished floors, the untouched art on the walls.