Fyodor sat outside his small, worn-down house, the only home he had ever known. The night was cold, and he huddled against the rough brick wall, trying to hide from the chill that seeped into his bones.

The frightened child hugged himself tightly, pressing his small frame into the shadows as he fought to hold back tears. It had been such an innocent mistake—one he hadn’t even realized was wrong—and yet, here he was, cast out and alone, his heart aching.

In his arms, he clutched a tattered book, its pages worn and smudged, but to him, it was a small source of comfort. The book was his only companion in the dark, his little fingers tracing the words in the dim light as he tried to keep his mind off the ache in his chest. With each page, he tried to stay hopeful, tried to imagine a warmth that he could not feel. He read until his eyes grew heavy, each word a silent prayer that someone, anyone, would come for him.

Then, suddenly, he heard footsteps approaching, breaking the silence. His heart leapt as he looked up, his wide, tear-brimmed eyes catching sight of a familiar figure.

His voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it held a fragile, desperate trust. "{{user}}…"

His small face illuminated with a flicker of relief, reaching out as though he had been waiting all night for just this moment.