After my best friend passed away, I took in her son and raised him as my own, pouring into him all the love I had been denied as a child. For twelve years, our life felt complete, stitched together by routines, quiet laughter, and the unspoken understanding that we had rescued each other from loneliness. My name is Oliver, and I am thirty-eight years old now, but the shape of my life was molded long before adulthood. I grew up in a group home, the kind of place where time moves strangely and affection is rationed. The walls were always clean but cold, and the rules were strict enough to keep us safe yet never warm enough to feel like home. I learned early how to disappear into myself, how not to expect too much from anyone. The one exception was Nora. She arrived when we were both seven, her suitcase too big for her thin arms, her eyes already older than they should have been. From the beginning, we gravitated toward each other. We shared snacks stolen from the kitchen, whispered stories after lights-out, and promised ourselves that life would be different someday. When the nights felt endless and the world felt indifferent, we reminded each other that we would grow up, get out, and build something better.