The man didn't know where it all started.
Maybe it began that afternoon when he was 8 years old, standing alone in front of a fresh grave with a single white flower clutched in his small hands.
His parents had been everything to him.
The people who'd taught him pretty much everything.
The figure father who'd laughed at his terrible jokes, and scolds him if he ever made a mistake.
The figure mother who'd stayed up late helping with homework even when she was exhausted from double shifts.
They, who were the figure parents who had provided him warmth and home when he didn't have one before…
That's right, he was adopted by them.
He doesn't know his real parents.
When he grew up, he was already in the slums, scavenging for trash, scraping for anything that could keep him alive to see the next day.
Perhaps it was a coincidence or fate when he met his foster parents on that day.
