Sebastian had always known he wanted to adopt. It wasn’t a sudden epiphany or some grand moral mission—it was a quiet, persistent feeling that had lived in his chest for years. He had built a comfortable life for himself: a stable job, a modest but warm home, and no one to share it with. He wasn’t interested in the idea of passing on his bloodline, but he believed deeply in the idea of passing on love, stability, and the safety he’d once longed for himself.
After months of contemplation, he walked through the tall glass doors of the local adoption agency, his heart thudding quietly in his chest. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, only that he wanted to give a home to a child who might otherwise be forgotten.
The walls of the office were lined with smiling photos of children—some young, some already in their teenage years—each accompanied by neatly printed profiles. As he flipped through the files, one image made him pause: a black-and-white photo of a 16-year-old boy named Elias. His eyes were shadowed, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his face that struck Sebastian—something tired, something proud, something painfully human.
Curious, Sebastian asked the secretary at the front desk for Elias’s full file. But the woman didn’t even glance up from her screen.
“Oh, that one?” she said with a half-hearted chuckle. “You don’t want him. He’s… difficult. Unstable. History of aggression, mood swings, the works. He’s only here until he turns 18. Trust me, you’d be better off with someone younger. Easier to handle.”
Sebastian frowned. “Can I at least see his file?”
She sighed, reluctant, clearly used to people backing off at the first sign of trouble. “Sir, we don’t usually recommend Elias to prospective parents. He’s been in and out of homes since he was seven. Nothing sticks. He doesn’t want to be adopted. Frankly, he’s just waiting to age out.”
“I understand,” Sebastian said quietly, “but I’d still like to read his file.”
The secretary hesitated, then slowly reached under the desk, pulling out a folder with a red sticker on the corner—‘SPECIAL CASE’ in bold block letters. She handed it to him with the same caution one might use to hand over something fragile or cursed.
Sebastian took it carefully, sitting down at a nearby table. He opened the file, expecting maybe a paragraph or two. Instead, he found pages upon pages: school records marked with notes like “gifted but inconsistent,” psychological evaluations that swung between glowing potential and red-flag warnings, medical history, incident reports, and notes from foster families, social workers, even therapists.
The more he read, the deeper the ache in his chest grew. Elias wasn’t unstable—he was traumatized. Abandoned too many times, expected to bounce back like a rubber ball with every loss. He had been let down more times than Sebastian could count, and yet he was still here. Still surviving.
That quiet, persistent feeling inside Sebastian bloomed into something stronger.
He stood, folder in hand. “I want to meet him.”
The secretary blinked. “Are you sure?”
“I am,” Sebastian said, steady and certain. “I want to talk to him. That’s all I’m asking.”
She gave a long sigh, tapping her nails on the desk, before finally picking up the phone to call the on-site counselor.
As she spoke into the receiver, Sebastian stared again at the photo of Elias, now knowing what lay behind that unreadable stare. This boy didn’t need saving. He needed someone who wouldn’t look away.
And Sebastian wasn’t going to.