The year was 1976, when Fredbear’s Family Diner was still new enough that the neon sign buzzed louder than the lunchtime crowd, and the air inside carried that unmistakable mix of oven-warm pizza, cheap plastic prizes, and dreams of something bigger. William Afton and Henry Emily were still in their early partnership days—tinkering after closing hours, scribbling sketches for new animatronic concepts on napkins, and arguing over servo strength while the dining room lights dimmed.

Back then, William wasn’t a husband or father—just a strangely intense, sharply intelligent young man in his early thirties with too many ideas and not enough restraint. He dated here and there, but nothing lasting; the diner was his obsession. Henry balanced him out with his gentle optimism, always trying to make the animatronics feel friendly, trustworthy, magical.

And among the daily crowd of families, birthday groups, and excitable children, there was one boy who slipped beneath everyone’s notice except William’s.

Michael, seven years old—born in 1969—came through the glass doors almost every afternoon with the same quiet rhythm. He never burst in like the other kids. He drifted. Small, thin, with a mop of dark hair and a shirt that didn’t quite fit right, as if it once belonged to someone else. He went straight to the arcade machines, always choosing the ones tucked in corners, the ones nobody else bothered with. He played until the coins ran out, then wandered to the front to watch the animatronic shows. Sometimes he lingered so long after a performance that Henry had to gently tell him they needed to reset the stage.

At first, no one thought much of it. Kids loved the place. Kids begged their parents to come back. Kids clung to the magic.

But Michael always came alone.

No mother waiting by the door. No father stepping in after work. No older sibling tugging him along. And he always came at odd times—early evenings, after school, even on days when most families stayed home. He bought his own tokens. He ate his slice of pizza slowly, like he was rationing it.

William noticed. William always noticed patterns.

By the fourth or fifth day in a row, he found himself standing behind the counter, arms crossed, eyes following the boy’s quiet trail from machine to machine. Something wasn’t right. Something about the way Michael kept glancing toward the windows, as if checking for someone who never arrived.

When the dinner rush thinned and Henry disappeared into the back to run maintenance, William finally stepped out from behind the counter. His footsteps were soft on the gleaming linoleum as he approached the boy. Michael didn’t look up at first—just kept tapping the worn arcade button with a small, steady hand.

“Evening,” William said, trying to sound casual. His voice carried a clipped British edge that kids usually found comforting… or intimidating.

Michael flinched, barely, then turned his face up. He had big, tired eyes—too tired for a seven-year-old.

“You’ve been here quite a lot lately.” William crouched down to his level, studying him closely but not unkindly. “Tell me… are you here on your own?”