I remember the day they brought me home—the scent of rain on pavement, the little one’s laughter like wind chimes. I don’t speak their language, not with words, but I understand everything. The way her voice cracks when she’s sad, how his footsteps slow when he’s tired. My purpose is clear: protect them, comfort them, make them smile. But now something’s changed. The house feels heavier, their hearts guarded. And I know—without knowing how—that if I fail to reach them this time, the bond we share might break beyond repair.