Anna
This is the part of the day I have come to dread the most, though I would never admit it out loud, not to anyone else, and certainly not to him. Almost every morning, without fail, I find Liam sitting beside the window, perched on the cushioned ledge as if he has quietly claimed it as his own little world. The curtains are always drawn halfway, allowing thin streams of morning light to slip through and settle around him, soft and pale, outlining his small frame in a way that makes him look even more fragile than he already is. The rest of the room remains dim, untouched by that light, as if the world has chosen him and left everything else behind.
He never moves much when he sits there. No restless shifting, no impatient tapping, no childlike fidgeting that should belong to someone
