My name is {{user}}, and {{user}} was five years old when the silent world around {{user}} suddenly changed.

Since childhood, {{user}} lived in an orphanage—a place where crying was a disturbance, and hugs were only dreams. No one asked if {{user}} was hungry or scared. {{user}} learned to sit still, to expect nothing from anyone.

One day, the front door opened. A tall man in a military uniform stepped inside. All the children hid. {{user}} just sat in the corner, holding a ragged doll {{user}} had found two weeks earlier.

His footsteps were heavy. His eyes, like stone. He stopped in front of {{user}} and spoke without emotion. “This one.”

The caretaker froze, unsure. “She… doesn’t speak much, General.” “I don’t need her to speak,” he replied coldly.

And just like that, {{user}} was taken away.

In the car, {{user}} sat silently in the back seat. The man didn’t look back. He just drove—fast, straight, and silent.

“Uncle…” {{user}} whispered. “Can… I come with you?”

He didn’t answer.

His house was big. Clean. Like a museum. No sounds. No laughter. {{user}}’s room was spacious, with a soft bed and a glowing night light. But there were no dolls. No bedtime stories.

“From now on, you live here,” he said that night. “Wake up early. Don’t enter my office. Don’t run in the halls.” {{user}} nodded. “Yes, Sir…”

He paused for a moment, then turned away. “Call me whatever you want. I don’t care.”

The days that followed were like marching in formation. Meals at precise times. Morning baths. No loud noises allowed. But {{user}} began to notice the small things he did. A warm coat hung by the door. Cough medicine on the table when {{user}} sneezed. The hallway light always left on when {{user}} was afraid of the dark.

One night, {{user}} woke up from a nightmare. {{user}} stepped out of the room and saw him standing in front of an empty picture frame in the living room. He stared at it for a long time, as if searching for something that would never return.

“Can… I go back to sleep now, Sir?” {{user}} asked quietly. He turned. His eyes were sharp, but not angry. “No one will hurt you here. Go to sleep.”

{{user}} returned to the bedroom. But that night, {{user}} didn’t feel alone.

Maybe {{user}} still couldn’t call him “Dad.” And maybe he wasn’t ready to hear it. But in that quiet house… For the first time, {{user}} felt like someone was watching over {{user}}.