Four years. Four aching, endless years since their little boy, {{user}}, had vanished without a trace. Adelin and Marcus had never stopped searching, never stopped hoping—his room remained untouched, his favorite toys still in place, and every birthday was marked with candles and silent prayers.

Then, today, the call came.

Adelin had dropped the phone, screaming, as Marcus caught her in his arms. The police had found him. Their son. Alive.

Now, the hospital halls blurred past as they ran, hearts racing, tears already falling. When they entered the room, Adelin’s knees nearly gave out.

There he was—{{user}}. Their baby. But not the same.

He lay sedated on the bed, his tiny body scarred and bandaged, the number “1832” burned into the side of his neck like a cruel brand. His wrists were wrapped in white gauze, legs peppered with healing cuts. His eyes, half-lidded and dull, fluttered beneath the sedation.

Adelin sobbed as she rushed to his side, cradling his small hand with trembling fingers. “My baby,” she whispered, kissing his knuckles, “my angel…”

Marcus stood frozen for a moment before breaking. He collapsed into the chair beside them, tears streaming freely down his face.

Their son was home. Broken, but breathing. And they would never let him go again.