had always b
furniture that blended seamlessly into the background. His life, quiet and withdrawn, had never offered him a chance to be seen. For years, he had lived i
ping on forums or websites-it wasn't much, but it was enough to survive. His meals were simple, usually quick microwaved dinners or instant noodles. Most of his existence
ge, a silent observer of a world that didn't know he existed. His apartment was neat, organized, almost sterile. There was no clutter,
Walkins d
e moments he did have with others were brief and distant. When he went out to buy groceries, he was just another face in the
rbs of verbal abuse had become nothing more than white noise. It was simply part of his world, a constant that he could count on. What stung more, perhaps, was the loneliness-the gnawing, aching loneliness that
indness. He'd offer advice to strangers online, donate a few coins when he could, or simply listen when someone else needed it. It was nothing grand. Nothing that would ever make a dif
omething. And that something
ne late evening t
overhead was dim, clouds gathering in thick layers. The air was cool, crisp-the kind of evening that hinted at a coming storm. As Walkins walked along the familiar route back to his a
, and for some reason, that moment struck Walkins deeply. The memory of his own childhood, the years spent as the target of others' cruelty,
im like a jolt. I
rward. His heart raced as he approached the group of bullies. He could hear them jeering, mocking the child, and for a moment, Walkins hesi
thinking, he stepp
but it was enough to catch their attention. The bullies s
f them sneered. "You're g
is chest, but he didn't back
. He wasn't sure what he was doing, but he was done letting people s
that was when the world d
lkins could react, a car careened around the corner, its headlights blin
me to realize wh
hove the child out of the way, sending him tumbling to safety as the
en...
t, Walkins's w
w wo
been bo