The house smelled like vanilla.
And polish.
Too clean.
Like no one ever cried here.
Like nothing bad ever happened.
My "room" had blue walls.
Rocket stickers.A small bed with dinosaur blankets.Shelves with toys I didn't remember.
A framed photo of me.
Smiling.
Too small to know anything.
My mom — the real one — sat beside me.
She kept brushing my hair with her fingers.
Whispering, "You're home now."
But it didn't feel like home.
It felt like a museum.
Like I was on display.
The boy who lived.
Everyone treated me like a miracle.
The neighbors brought flowers.
The reporters waited outside.
They called me "the boy they brought back from the dead."
But I didn't feel alive.
I felt… misplaced.
At night, I couldn't sleep.
The bed was too soft.
The silence wasn't right.
Too round.
The attic had sharp silence.
This one was padded. Trapped.
I missed the creak of wood.
The tap of rain on the glass roof.
The faint hum of Mama's breath behind the door.
I dreamed of her.
Mama.
Sitting at the bottom of the basement stairs.
Holding Mr. Nibbles.
Rocking back and forth.
Singing that old song.
The one that never had words.
I woke up crying.
My mom came rushing in.
"Nightmare?" she asked.
I nodded.
She hugged me.
But it didn't feel the same.
The next morning, she handed me a newspaper.
My face was on it.
Underneath:"Missing Child Found After Six Years in Captivity."
Captivity.
Like I was a prisoner.
Like I was an animal in a cage.
But no one ever asked if I felt safe there.
I looked at the mirror above my new dresser.
I didn't see Daniel.
Or Lucas.
I just saw a boy without a name.
I whispered to my reflection:
"I don't know where I belong."
The reflection blinked.
But I didn't.