I don't know how long I laid there.
Could've been hours. Could've been days.
Time stopped meaning anything after hunger replaced my heartbeat. After my tears dried into salt crusting my cheeks.
And then I heard footsteps.
Heavy ones. A man's maybe. Then lighter—smaller, quicker. Like someone running.
I didn't look. People passed all the time. They never stopped. Never saw me.
But these footsteps did.
The girl's voice came first.
Soft. Rushed. Strange.
Not German. Something warmer. Rounder. Spanish?
I cracked one eye open.
She was standing right in front of me. Small. No older than seven. Big brown eyes and dark curls spilling out of a pink hat. A coat too puffy for her tiny frame. Her cheeks were red from the cold, her nose runny, but she didn't look away from me.
She crouched down and started talking fast.
I didn't understand a word.
But her voice didn't sound cruel. Not sharp like my mother's. Not loud like the thugs who laughed while they kicked me.
It trembled.
She was crying.
Why?
Her arms wrapped around me suddenly—warm, soft, her jacket brushing my skin.
I froze. My body locked up like a kicked dog.
What was she doing?
She was hugging me.
Me.
Even though I smelled like piss and blood and the gutter. Even though I hadn't spoken in days. Even though I hadn't felt human in longer than I could remember.
She held me like I mattered.
I didn't move. I couldn't.
She sobbed into my shoulder, and I didn't know why.
A woman called out—probably her mother. Then a man's voice.
I flinched hard. That sound used to mean fists.
But they didn't yell.
The man came over, knelt. I turned my head just enough to see his face.
He looked like her—dark features, kind eyes—but older, taller, stronger.
He didn't hit me.
He looked at me. Really looked.
Like I was a boy. Not trash.
The girl said something again, fast and panicked, grabbing her father's sleeve and pointing at me over and over. I still didn't understand.
But I knew what she wanted.
She wanted them to take me with them.
And for the first time in my life, someone wanted me.
I didn't believe it. Couldn't. I stared at the girl's face, trying to find the lie. Waiting for her to flinch, to wrinkle her nose, to change her mind.
She didn't.
She smiled at me through tears.
And something inside me cracked.
Not like the breaking I was used to. Not fists-on-ribs, not boots-to-face. This was smaller. Softer. A thread pulled loose from something I thought was already destroyed.
When the man reached down and lifted me into his arms, I didn't fight.
I was too weak anyway.
But I also… didn't want to.
I just stared at her. This tiny thing with a sun inside her chest. A language I didn't know. A heart I didn't deserve.
And somehow, I knew—I'd never forget her.
Even if I forgot everything else.
---
The house was warm.
Not just the air, but the way it felt inside. Like it had never known screaming. Like no one ever got hit here.
Her father carried me in like I weighed nothing. I was too weak to move, too tired to care. Her mother opened the door, and the smell of something cooking hit me so hard I almost cried.
They didn't ask questions.
They didn't look disgusted.
They just helped.
Her dad took me to a bathroom. Ran warm water in a tub. He didn't say much, but his voice was calm. His hands were careful when he helped me out of my bloodied shirt. When he saw the bruises on my ribs, he paused—
But didn't speak.
Just looked like it hurt him, too.
He helped me wash. Gentle. Like I might break.
I didn't know how to act. No one had ever done this before. Not without yelling. Not without hurting.
Afterward, he gave me clean clothes. Big. Soft. Warm.
Then food.
Hot soup. Bread. Something sweet I couldn't name.
I ate like an animal. Hands shaking, stuffing pieces into my mouth too fast.
I thought they'd stop me. Slap my hand. Yell.
But they didn't.
Her mom just gently touched my hand, slowing me down. Refilling the bowl.
Every time I looked up, they were still there. Not gone. Not turning away.
Later, they showed me to a room.
There was a bed. With a blanket. A real one.
The second I touched it, my body shook.
Like it didn't know how to handle softness anymore.
I curled under it, head on the pillow, too full and too clean to believe it was real.
Then the door creaked open.
Tiny footsteps padded across the wooden floor. I didn't move. Just stared at the ceiling.
Then she climbed in.
That same girl.
She laid down next to me, her back to the wall, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Like it was normal. Like we were friends.
She looked at me in the dark, her brown eyes wide.
"¿Cómo te llamas?" she whispered.
I blinked.
I didn't know what that meant. But she kept looking at me, waiting, like I was supposed to answer.
"¿Tu nombre?" she asked again, slower.
Name.
"I... Ilay," I whispered.
She smiled.
"I-lay," she repeated, like she liked saying it.
"Serene," she pointed to herself. "Yo soy Serene."
I didn't understand all the words.
But I understood her.
She shuffled closer under the blanket, our shoulders almost touching. Her fingers wiggled in the air as she spoke again, fast and full of spark—"¿Tienes hermanos? ¿Dónde está tu casa?"
I blinked, lost.
She giggled, realizing I had no idea what she was saying. Then tried again, slower, shaping her mouth clearly:
"¿Casa? ¿Mamá? ¿Papá?"
"Mama… papa…" I echoed softly.
She beamed. "Sí!"
I didn't answer.
She went quiet for a second, then whispered something else—longer. Her words tumbled like marbles, full of emotion, even if I couldn't catch the meaning. I just watched her. The way her eyes shined. The way her nose scrunched when she smiled.
She kept talking.
Her voice was soft but excited, hands dancing in the air to explain her thoughts like I was supposed to understand every single word. I didn't. But it didn't matter.
For once, I didn't feel dumb.
No one got mad when I didn't respond.
No one called me slow.
I just watched her.
Listened.
She told me everything, I think. About her dog. Or her school. Or her favorite food—something about pan dulce and ice cream and cartoons.
She laughed at her own words.
She called me Ilay again and again.
And something in my chest moved. Weird and warm.
I leaned into the pillow, still watching her.
Was this what people meant when they said life could change overnight?
Was this what it felt like?
I felt it then—my lips pulling up at the corners. Slowly. Clumsily.
A smile.
My first one.
All because of her sunshine voice and her soft brown eyes and the way she never once looked at me like I was broken.
Just a boy.
Just… Ilay.
And maybe, that was enough.
That night, I fell asleep with her beside me, one of her little hands curled into my t-shirt, her breath soft and steady against my arm.
And in the quiet of that room, I made a promise.
Silent. Small. Honest.
I'll never lose her.
But life isn't kind to promises made by boys like me.