That night, he didn't cry himself to sleep.
He still curled into the blanket, still trembled from the bruises, but when his eyes closed, the thought of ending it wasn't the last thing in his mind.
Instead, there was a flicker—a fragile spark of possibility.
A future.
A dream.
Something better, even if he couldn't name it yet.
I felt it burn faintly inside him, inside me.
Not a victory. Not yet.
But a beginning.
And as I drifted into uneasy sleep, I realized the truth:
Hope, no matter how small, was more powerful than despair.
And it was my only weapon.