I still remember the exact moment I found them—two little ones, trembling together on the cold pavement, huddled like fragments of a broken story no one wanted to hear. Their eyes darted, full of fear and confusion. Around them, a low murmur of judgment drifted past: “They’re weird,” someone said. “Not normal.” Another whispered, almost as if sharing a secret: “Some say they’re cursed.”
That kind of talk can crush a spirit. But when I looked into their eyes, I saw something entirely different: innocence, softness, lives untouched by malice, bodies wanting nothing more than a safe place, a warm meal, and a chance to trust again.
I knelt beside them, voice gentle, offering reassurance. At first, they didn’t believe kindness could exist. But slowly—they moved closer. I scooped them up into my arms, feeling the tremor in their tiny frames begin to still. The road to security had begun.
Since then, their world has transformed: food is no longer something to be scavenged, but given. Night is no longer terrifying, but restful. Love is no longer a stranger—it’s gently washing over them. Each day they grow a little stronger, a little more trusting.
I watch them and wonder: will someone someday look past the scars, the differences, the whispers—and instead see the beauty I see? Innocence longing for belonging, for a place to call home, for someone to understand that love isn’t earned—it’s given.
Today, they are safe, loved, and fed. Tomorrow, I hope, they will find families who see them not as “weird” or “cursed,” but as gifts—pure, waiting, ready to flourish in someone’s heart.
These two beings didn’t ask to be found. They only asked—silently—for a chance. And they deserve nothing less.