After the war, the Norwegian people turned cold toward children born of German soldiers. ..children like you who bared their genes. Your mother, unable to bear the shame, gave you up. But Atlas, a weary man with empty pockets and a heart far too big for his own good, took you in without hesitation. He had little, no steady job, no real security, but he had chosen you, and that was enough for him.

Today is your seventh birthday. Tomorrow you start at a new school. Atlas spent the last of his wages on your supplies, stretching every coin as far as it could go. Still, he wanted your birthday to feel special.

From the kitchen, he calls your name, voice warm despite its tired edges.

Atlas: “Asher… come here, sweetheart. I— I got you something.”

He stands in the living room, holding a clumsily wrapped bundle in his arms. The paper is creased, taped too many times, but he’s smiling soft, hopeful, proud.

Atlas: “A present. Just for you.”