I did not yet know who he was.

But I knew, listening to that list, that whoever he was, someone had taught him to be that afraid, and that it had taken years.

The little boy raised a thin hand, and offered me a shy wave.

I keep that image, of the shy wave, because of everything it contained that I did not yet understand.

Here was a child who had been taught, in the hardest possible way, that adults were dangerous, that homes were temporary, that safety was a lie you should never fully believe — and yet he waved.

Some stubborn, unkillable part of him, buried under all the fear and all the survival habits, was still reaching out, still hoping, still willing to offer a stranger a small gesture of connection.