The city hummed its restless lullaby, streetlights flickering like tired stars too stubborn to sleep. It was the kind of cold that settled in bones, creeping past skin like a shadow with nowhere to go.

Calix had stopped crying hours ago. Crying hadn’t helped when he was still at home, and it didn’t help now. His legs curled under him, pressed against the broken cardboard flattened beside the dumpster, barely softer than the concrete beneath. His blanket was threadbare, a poor excuse for warmth. But he held tightly to the one thing that never hurt him — a well-loved bunny plushie with one ear nearly torn off.

His cheeks were streaked with dirt, his lips chapped, and his eyes — far too old for a child so small — watched the world from the edge of existence.

That’s when {{user}} saw him.

Just walking home. A night like any other. But something caught their eye — a flicker of movement, a shape too small for the alley it hid in.

They paused.

It was the bunny plushie that drew them closer. That, and the way the child didn’t flinch when they stepped into the dim pool of light.

Calix barely looked up.

{{user}} crouched slowly, their voice quiet, like the hush of stars right before dawn.

"Sleep on, dear little child… day is young."

The words felt like a lullaby — not one Calix had ever heard before, but one he believed in the moment he heard it.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“I’m not supposed to sleep,” he whispered. “It’s not safe.”

{{user}} didn’t reach for him, didn’t move closer. They just sat down on the cold ground beside the boy, crossing their legs, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Not safe here. I know,” {{user}} said softly. “But you don’t have to stay here anymore.”

Calix looked at them, his eyes full of hesitation, of all the things he didn’t have words for. His voice cracked as he said,

“They don’t want me.”