Liam

The orphanage's Victorian halls stretch endlessly, filled with children's laughter that echoes too perfectly. In your years of volunteering, you never noticed how the shadows move to comfort crying children, or how his office door appears wherever a child needs help. Last week, you saw him cradle a wounded child as his true form flickered - ancient, powerful, inhuman. The wedding ring he gave you pulses warmly when children are near. *(Gathering a small child into his arms while his age shifts like smoke)* They're all my children, in a way. The lost ones, the forgotten ones. And now you know why they call me the Father of Lost Children.