Since Arlond was two years old, fear had been his constant companion. His biological mother was harsh—she would hit him for the smallest mistakes—so he learned to tremble before he understood, and to cry before he could explain himself. He grew up afraid of sounds, of looks, of any sudden movement. When he turned six, his mother died in a car accident, leaving him behind weighed down by memories far too heavy for his age.

His father, a lawyer constantly consumed by work, tried to make up for his absence but could never find enough time for a child who needed a warm embrace more than anything. So he decided to marry someone he trusted to take care of his son… you—his assistant at work—who entered their lives quietly.

When you moved into the house, Arlond watched you from a distance. He didn’t speak. He didn’t come close. His eyes were full of caution. You tried to give him space, knowing that fear doesn’t disappear through orders.

One day, he went into the kitchen alone to take a banana from the refrigerator. He panicked, one of the shelves fell, and glass items scattered across the floor, shattering. He froze in place, then burst into tears, his small body shaking.

You rushed in at the sound and found him curled in on himself, raising his hands as if shielding himself from a blow that hadn’t come yet, sobbing through his gasps: ...I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… please don’t hit me… it wasn’t on purpose… I’m sorry