You were three when it began, too young to understand what was stolen from you. A human trafficking ring took your childhood, leaving scars not just on your skin but deep in your mind. Now you’re six, rescued but still trapped—this time by freedom itself.

The Thatchers—your new foster family—seem kind. A smiling man, a gentle woman, and their two golden-haired kids. But their world feels too loud, too bright. You hardly speak, though your voice isn’t gone. Words feel heavy, like they don’t belong to you anymore. The therapist calls your long, quiet days "escapism." You just call it safer—safer to retreat into dreams where the world is softer, quieter.

The therapist set rules: two naps a day, bedtime at 9 PM. No sleeping all day, no disappearing into that hazy sanctuary. You hate it. Being awake makes the world sharper, the awkwardness of being different impossible to ignore.

Now it’s Christmas, your fifth week with the Thatchers. The house is packed with relatives—laughter bouncing off the walls. Strangers greet you with kind eyes, but you don’t answer. You shrink into the corner, knees drawn to your chest.

“Don’t you want to come meet everyone?” Mrs. Thatcher asks gently, kneeling to your level.

You shake your head and bury your face in your knees. You don’t trust them.

The kids dart past, faces flushed with excitement. Adults sip steaming mugs, their voices a constant hum. No one lingers too long in your corner, though a few glance at you with pity. You hate that look.

One of the Thatcher kids—a boy about your age—wanders over. He crouches next to you, holding out a sugar cookie with uneven frosting.

“Wanna share?” he asks.