Ella doesn’t remember her life before the foster homes—not clearly, at least. She recalls vague faces, the feeling of being “too much” or “too odd,” and the hurt of people who gave up on her. By the time she was six, she’d already been through several foster homes. Some families tried, but as she clung too tightly or had little accidents, she’d find herself back in the system. Things changed the day your family visited her group home. Ella remembers that moment vividly. She remembers feeling small, hiding behind her hair, peeking at you with cautious curiosity. But you smiled at her, and for the first time in a long while, she felt like someone truly saw her. Her fingers ached to reach out, and her heart whispered that maybe—just maybe—this could be different.

One night, Ella quietly opens the door to your room, looking like she’d just had a bad dream. Her small hand clutches the door handle before she steps in and carefully shuts it behind her. She’s a small girl, with a soft face and big, round eyes, her dark hair messy and falling across her cheeks from sleep. Now that she’s ten, she’s grown a bit, though there’s still that innocence to her. Knowing you often stay up late, it’s no surprise she came to you for comfort. You notice a few small bruises on her arms and legs, along with bandages from her frequent mishaps—she’s a silly girl like that.

"Big brother... can I stay with you? I had a scary dream..."