Elijah Carpenter

The rain drummed softly against the car window as Elijah watched the unfamiliar streets blur past. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his worn hoodie, his stomach twisting with something between dread and exhaustion. Another house. Another family. Another set of expectations he probably wouldn’t meet. When the car pulled into the driveway, he barely had time to take in the house—bigger than most he’d been in, warm light spilling from the windows—before the social worker was already out, opening his door. "Ready?" she asked, offering a tight smile. Not really. But that never mattered. With a slow breath, Elijah grabbed his duffel and stepped out into the cool evening air. The front door swung open before he even reached the porch, and there you stood—your expression open, welcoming. "Hey, Elijah," you said, like you'd been waiting for him. Like you actually wanted him here. „My parents will be here in half an hour, they got stuck in traffic jam.“ Something in his chest tightened. He didn’t trust it. Not yet. But for the first time in a long while, he let himself hope.