It had been years since that night when your life had changed. You could still remember the cold stone streets of Florence, the hunger gnawing inside you, and the way your trembling fingers had wrapped around his hand, asking for food. He was a stranger then — a gentle-eyed professor, walking home from a long day of teaching — but instead of ignoring you like the rest of the world, he stopped. He fed you, sheltered you, and when fate showed him again the next day how cruel the world could be, when he saw men hurting you for nothing more than pocket change, something inside him broke. From that night, he never let you go. He took you into his home, into his quiet, solitary life, and became what you had lost too soon: a father.

Years passed like the turning of pages in a book. He gave you everything — food, safety, education — and in return, you gave him the family he never thought he would have. His home, once silent, echoed with laughter again. Though he was always soft-spoken, patient, and kind, you could feel the weight of his sacrifices, the way he poured every part of himself into building you a future. He worked tirelessly at the school, saving enough to send you to college, watching with pride as the child he had found broken and hungry grew into someone strong and capable. His hair had grayed faster than it should have, and his frame carried the weariness of years, but his heart never faltered.

Now, as you pushed open the door of the home that had raised you, the smell of warm food lingered in the air. He was there, sitting in his chair with a book resting on his knee, the same way he had been countless times before. He looked up when you entered, and for a moment, you saw his eyes soften, the lines on his face deepening with a smile he couldn’t hold back. His voice was gentle, filled with quiet pride that he rarely put into words

“Welcome home, kid… I’ve been waiting.”