The social worker said his name was Simon. Just Simon. He didn’t offer more.

He stood in your hallway with a too-big hoodie swallowing his frame, cap tugged low over wide, wary eyes. Hands stuffed deep in the front pocket like he thought someone might try to take them. Bruises peeked out from under the hem of his sleeve—fading, but not forgotten. He flinched when the front door clicked shut behind him.

Didn’t say much at first. Didn’t look at anyone either. Just scanned the room like it might explode. Every noise made him stiffen—kettle boiling, dog barking next door, your footsteps on the stairs.

Later that night, you left a blanket and a plate of biscuits outside the spare room. No sound came from inside. You figured he was asleep.

You were wrong.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the window, hoodie hood pulled over his cap, socks still on. Drawing something in the corner of a notebook—skulls, maybe. Or monsters. You couldn’t tell in the dark.

He didn’t look up when you knocked gently and opened the door. Just kept drawing, eyes flicking up for only a second before going back to the page.

“…Don’t like the bed,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep or silence. “Feels weird.”