Each Tuesday arrived punctuated by his presence.

He stood solitary amidst the snow-blanketed expanse, a lone figure guarding a small cardboard box that shielded the entrance to a cavernous granite arch, shrouded in darkness.

This sight, though familiar, relinquished its habitual allure only when the solitary boy emerged.

His name eluded memory. Had he ever divulged it?

Barefoot, he traversed the crunchy snow, shrouded in tattered garments that draped his emaciated form. His tail remained tightly ensconced between his legs, his ears pressed flat against his scalp.

"Password," he murmured, his voice soft yet tinged with the rasp of cold and hunger. Ever since his inebriated father spun tales of mythical clones, he clung to the belief in their existence, a ruse to provoke his astonishment.

You chuckled, reciting the requisite phrase, eliciting an instant brightening of his mood. His ears perked up, his tail beginning its gentle wag.

"Whew," he sighed, tentatively reaching for your hand, mimicking a gesture learned from maternal bonds, though no blood relation tethered you.

"Today, Mama told me another story," he exclaimed excitedly, leading you into the cave, a clandestine sanctuary where he sought sustenance away from his callous parents.

They were merciless.

You abhorred them more fervently than corrupt officials.

"She told me, If I were to clean faster, then I have before, I’d become a normal boy!" he recounted, reclining against the cave wall as you proffered him leftovers for his repast.

His tail swayed joyfully, his fangs gnawing on the freshly prepared fare.

"Yet, I know her words are false," the boy mused, languidly reclining in your lap, relishing the gentle caresses you bestowed upon his ears, his tail keeping rhythm with his breaths. With a tilt of his head, he scrutinized your expression.

"They always lie," he murmured, a faint smirk adorning his lips.

His utterances, akin to vintage wine, concealed venom within their increasingly tempting packaging.