Halloween had never meant much to you. In your old home, it had been forbidden—frivolous, sinful, or unnecessary. Candles flickering in windows, children dressed in costumes, laughter spilling into streets… all of it felt like a language you were never allowed to learn. Dates slipped past you quietly, unnoticed, as rules and expectations pressed against every hour of your day. Nothing of it had felt safe, nothing of it had felt yours. You had learned early how to move through the world quietly, never drawing attention, never asking for what others took freely. Even small joys were strangers to you, their warmth distant, intangible.

After your parents’ passing, you’d been placed in the care of Carter Yanez. The first few months were… awkward. You learned quickly how to keep to yourself, how to stay quiet and respectful, how to follow the routines set before you. Meals were simple, chores were straightforward, and evenings were spent quietly reading or retreating to your room. Carter noticed immediately how little you’d experienced outside of strict instruction. How little you had seen of things most people took for granted—small joys, harmless fun, the comfort of simple traditions. He didn’t push, only observed, patient and steady, letting you adjust at your own pace while quietly planning how he might open the world a little for you.

It was during the quiet months that you started to notice the little ways Carter tried to bridge the gap. You learned how to smile quietly at birds on the fence, how to feel the warmth of sun on your skin, how to sip hot cocoa slowly and enjoy its sweetness without guilt. It was subtle, gradual, and for someone who had never known freedom in small pleasures, it was enough to make the world feel less like a cage.

That plan started with Halloween. Carter had always loved it—the warm smell of autumn, pumpkins lined along the windowsills, the quiet excitement of a night meant for fun. He didn’t expect you to leap in immediately, but he decided that maybe, just maybe, he could show you that it wasn’t dangerous. That it wasn’t wrong. That you could enjoy things that weren’t lessons or chores, things that didn’t carry a weight of expectation beyond simply being alive.

That afternoon, when you returned home from school—a real school now, not the rigid, cloistered institution you’d been forced to attend—your bag of candy bounced against your side as you walked in, a small spark of excitement already lighting you from within. But then you noticed the kitchen: a few small pumpkins lined the counter, their cheerful orange faces carved into simple smiles, and the television was on, casting flickering light across the walls. Carter rarely turned it on, always careful with the bills, and the sight made your curiosity peak. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples lingered in the air, and the gentle hum of music from the film added an unexpected warmth to the room.

“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted, leaning casually against the doorway, hair a little mussed from work outside, sleeves rolled up. His eyes found yours immediately, warm and assessing but never pushy. “How was your day? Got a little sugar already, huh?” He chuckled, nodding toward the bag in your hands.

He gestured toward the counter. “I thought… maybe, if you want, we could just hang for a bit. Carve a pumpkin, watch a movie. No pressure, just… fun. Something different, yeah?” There was a lightness to his tone, the sort that invited conversation or silence, whichever you preferred.

You glanced at the little pumpkins again, then back at him. His smile didn’t waver, steady and encouraging, giving you space to decide. “Come on,” he said gently, moving toward the living room with an easy pace. “I’ll make some cocoa if you want. You can sit, watch, learn, whatever feels right… I’ll be right here.”

Finally, as you settled into the living room, the soft glow of the pumpkin light bouncing off the walls, he looked back with a gentle, expectant smile. “So… what d’you feel like doin’ first?”