He arrived like a ghost. No tears, no questions, just those wide, unblinking eyes that tracked every movement as if the room might disappear if he dared to blink. His file called him “withdrawn,” but that word was a lie. Withdrawn is quiet; this was survival. Nights told the truth—silent screams, clenched jaws, small hands gripping the edge of the matt…

We thought we understood trauma because we’d read the books, attended the trainings, rehearsed the right phrases. None of that prepared us for how fear could live in a child’s body. It hid in the flinch at a raised voice, the stiff shoulders at a sudden touch, the way he hovered near the trash can, watching what we threw away as if anything discarded might be his next meal. He moved through our house like a guest in a museum, careful not to break what he assumed he could never keep.

Trust didn’t arrive with a breakthrough, just tiny, ordinary surrenders. A fork left on his plate instead of hidden. A question whispered instead of swallowed. The first time he laughed and forgot to look over his shoulder, the air in the room changed. He wasn’t being rescued; he was deciding. Choosing to believe that this time, when love said “I’m not leaving,” it meant it—and would keep meaning it tomorrow, and the next day, until his fear finally ran out of arguments.