The little boy lived Alone in an old house After his Parents died. Then new neighbors arrived and..

People nearby called it “the broken house.” Parents warned their kids to stay away from it. The porch leaned forward like it might fall. The windows were cracked. The shutters hung crooked, missing pieces like broken teeth. When the wind blew, the house made low, tired sounds, like it remembered better days.

But now, it was the only place Leo had.

The only place that still smelled a little like the life he lost.

Dust floated through the broken windows. Empty cans rolled across the floor when the wind came through. A dead vine stretched across the floorboards like it was trying to hold the house together.

And right in the middle of all that silence, a small boy lay curled up on the cold floor.

Barefoot.

Wearing the same oversized gray T-shirt and rough shorts he’d worn for weeks.

His chest rose and fell softly. His breathing was shallow, like he had learned not to make noise in a world that didn’t notice him. One arm wrapped tightly around an empty tin can, holding it like it mattered. Like if he let go, it might disappear too.

Leo never slept deeply.

Even at three years old, he slept like someone who had learned fear early.