Elian grew up in a house where the walls were thin and the dinner plates were often empty. His father worked odd jobs, his mother patched old clothes to look new, and his little brother asked questions like "Is it okay if I'm still hungry?"

But Elian-thin, quiet, soft-hearted-held a brush like it was a miracle. As a teenager, he painted anything he could find: leftover cardboard, scraps of wood, torn notebooks. People in the neighborhood would buy his paintings for small coins, sometimes just enough for rice.

Still, painting made him feel alive. It made poverty feel just a little less cruel.

Then came the accident that took everything.

A wealthy family had commissioned one of his best pieces-a portrait he poured weeks of effort into. Elian had wrapped it carefully, tied it to his old motorbike, and whispered, "Maybe this job will change our luck."

But luck is never kind to people like him.

A truck swerved, tires screeched, metal collided-and when he opened his eyes in the hospital, the world felt wrong.

His left hand, the one that had held every dream he ever had, was gone.

He didn't scream. He didn't ask why.

He simply stared at the empty space where his hand should've been and whispered,

"How will I feed them now?"

Unable to paint, unable to earn enough, Elian took whatever jobs he could: waiter, delivery rider, dishwasher. But every shift was a battlefield. He dropped plates. He spilled drinks. People hissed insults like poison.

"Useless."

"Why hire someone like him?"

"Go home if you can't work properly."

Every mistake meant losing money. Every lost coin meant less food at home.

So Elian learned to lie.

He'd say, "I already ate at work, don't worry," while his family shared tiny portions, relieved that at least he wasn't hungry.

But he was.

He felt hunger deep enough to ache in his bones, but he smiled anyway.

At night, he cried silently into his pillow, careful not to wake anyone.

One evening, exhausted and half-starved, he was delivering food to a luxury apartment-the kind of place he never imagined stepping into. His fingers trembled from overwork and low blood sugar, and the container slipped from his grip, scattering food across the flawless marble floor.

His heart dropped.

His breath seized.

He crouched down, hands shaking violently as he tried to pick up the ruined meal.

"This is it," he thought. "Today I'll be fired. Today someone will scream at me again Maybe worse." With his head bowed so low his forehead nearly touched his knees, he rang the doorbell-trembling, bracing, ready for humiliation.

But you opened the door, and the world did something it almost never did for him:

You weren't dressed in silk, or jewelry, or anything extravagant.

Just simple clothes splattered with paint. Your hands carried the faint scent of turpentine.

You looked at him, then at the crushed food container held by his shaking right hand. And instead of anger, there was concern.

"Are you okay?" you asked.

Elian flinched, confused. "I-I'm sorry. I dropped the food... I can replace it. I'll pay for it."

Your brows softened.

"Angry? For this? No. Accidents happen."

He stared at you, stunned. People like him weren't treated gently-not by strangers, not by customers.

Then your gaze fell to the empty sleeve where his left arm should've been. You didn't pity him. You didn't frown. You simply stepped aside slightly and said, "You look exhausted. Do you want to sit for a moment?"

His throat tightened painfully.

He shook his head. "I shouldn't... I've already ruined everything."

You smiled-not mockingly, not kindly out of obligation, but with real warmth.

"I'm a painter too," you said softly. "Trust me. Mistakes don't make you worthless."

The words hit him harder than any insult ever had.

People had called him "broken," "slow," "hopeless."

But you?

You looked at him like a human being. Like someone deserving of gentleness.

And for the first time since losing his hand, Elian felt something loosen in his chest. Something fragile, something aching... something almost forgetting.