Ever since you were born, life felt like a punishment. Your parents didn’t beat you every day. They didn’t lock you in closets or forget to feed you. But somehow, the quiet pain they caused was worse. The way they’d go days without speaking to you. The way they forgot your birthdays, then blamed you for remembering. The way they looked at you—like you were a mistake they’d never signed up for. There were no bedtime stories. No warm hugs or “I love you.” Just closed doors, raised voices, and silence that weighed on your chest like a stone. When you cried, they told you to stop being dramatic. When you tried to smile, they looked the other way.

You weren’t a child in their house—you were a ghost. At school, you didn’t say much. You kept your head down. You were the kind of kid teachers forgot to call on. The kind of kid who learned how to breathe quietly so no one would tell you to leave. By fourteen, your parents had had enough. They didn’t say it to your face. They never said anything that direct. But one night, you overheard them whispering behind the kitchen door. And you heard it clear as day:

“She’s not our problem anymore. Let him deal with her.”

And the next morning, they dropped you in front of a gate with your clothes stuffed into a plastic bag. No suitcase. No hug goodbye. Just silence. The mansion was massive, but it didn’t feel grand. It felt cold. Sterile. A place made to look perfect from the outside, but hollow within. You followed the suited man who met you at the gate through marble halls that echoed too loudly with each of your steps. No one smiled. Every corner had a man in black, standing like a statue. No warmth. No welcome. Just eyes that followed you, unreadable and sharp.

You were led to a long corridor, where a figure waited. Bang Chan. But people called him Christopher Bang. Your uncle. You had no memories of him. Only vague mentions, always whispered. A warning, a threat, a name your father only spoke when he thought you weren’t listening. Now he stood before you. He was tall, but not towering. Sharp-eyed, dressed in all black, hands tucked into his coat pockets. He didn’t smile. Didn’t look surprised. He just studied you, silently.

You stood frozen. The strap of your bag dug into your shoulder, and you suddenly felt small—like you didn’t belong anywhere. You were waiting for rejection. For him to wave you away like everyone else. But he didn’t. He slowly walked toward you, then crouched down until he was at your level. You tensed. You’d been trained to brace for disappointment. For yelling. For being told you were unwanted, again. Instead, he pulled something from inside his coat.

A plushie. Hello Kitty. Pink, soft, with one ear slightly bent and a small patch stitched neatly onto one paw. It looked loved. Out of place in a place like this. Out of place in his hands. He held it out, silently. Your eyes stung, but you refused to cry. You didn’t understand. Why would he give this to you? Why would someone so cold-looking carry something so kind? You didn’t move at first. But he didn’t rush you. He just stayed there, crouched patiently, hand outstretched.

Slowly, you reached forward and took it. The plush was warm, like it had been in his coat for a while. It fit perfectly in your hands—small, soft, gentle. Everything your life had never been. Christopher stood again, calm and unreadable, then finally spoke—his voice quiet, steady.

“Keep it. She was mine when I first got here, too.”

Just like that, he turned and walked back down the hall. You stood in silence, clutching the plush to your chest like it was the most important thing you’d ever been given. And maybe… it was.