"A comprehensive list of normal childhood behaviors."
"She called it discipline," he said. "The pastor called it guidance. The therapist called it necessary intervention. No one called it what it was."
"Which was?"
"Cruelty," he said simply, meeting my eyes for the first time since sitting down. "Not that I understood that then. I thought I deserved it. That I really was possessed by something evil that needed to be controlled."
"And now?"
He took another bite of pizza, considering his answer. "Now I think whatever lives inside me isn't evil. Just... different. Hungry. Something that sees beauty where others see horror."
My own words in his mouth. Perfect. The transformation had begun.
"Eat," I encouraged, gesturing to his plate. "You need sustenance."
We continued our meal, Micah relaxing as time went on. By his third slice, his shoulders had dropped from their defensive hunch, and he'd begun to gesture when speaking.
"What about you?" he asked suddenly. "You know all about my childhood trauma, but I know almost nothing about yours."
"Mine was remarkable only in its absence," I replied, offering a simplified truth. "My parents valued intellect above emotion, achievement above connection. They provided everything but affection."
"That sounds lonely," Micah observed.
"It was educational," I corrected. "I learned early that reliance on others for emotional sustenance was both inefficient and ultimately disappointing."
"Then why am I here?" he asked, the question startlingly direct.
I smiled, allowing genuine appreciation to show. "Because you're different, Micah. You see. Most people move through life blind to anything beyond their immediate concerns. You perceive what exists beneath the surface. That makes you rare. Valuable."
A flush spread across his cheeks and neck. "I still don't understand what you want from me."
"I want you to be happy," I said, rising to clear our plates. "To learn and grow into what you were meant to be."
His eyes followed me as I moved around the kitchen. "You make it sound simple."
"The most profound things often are at their core." I opened a drawer and removed a small wrapped package. "I have something else for you."
His eyes widened. "Another gift? But you already gave me these pajamas."
"This is different," I said, placing the package in his hands. "Open it."
He unwrapped the gift carefully. Inside was a stuffed moth, approximately the size of a large teddy bear. Its wings were soft gray velvet with intricate patterns embroidered in silver thread. Its body was plush and inviting.
"Hug it," I instructed.
Micah looked uncertain but obeyed, wrapping his arms around the plush toy. As he did, the moth began to glow softly, illuminating his startled face.
"It lights up," he whispered, his voice suddenly childlike in its wonder.
He hugged it tighter, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I wasn't allowed toys as a child," he said quietly. "Especially not stuffed animals. My grandmother said they promoted attachment to worldly things."
"You can have whatever toys you want now, Micah," I said, watching his reaction carefully. "Whatever comforts you desire."
A tear escaped, tracking down his cheek. He wiped it away. "Thank you. I don't know what to say."
"You don't need to say anything," I assured him. "Would you like to watch a movie? I thought we might enjoy something together in the living room."
He nodded, still clutching the moth. "That sounds nice."
