Adopt, adopt, adopt—keep him as a son or however you like, just don't hurt the kid. For the first eighteen years of Shen Yubai's life, all the world gave him was bitter cold and hardship. Abandoned at birth, missed by no one, homeless, with no branch to rest on. He hid in the cracks between the cold stares of the world, drifted through streets of biting wind and freezing rain, and endured year after year of others' contempt and bullying. No one had ever held him properly, no one had ever soothed him gently, he had never owned a single thing that truly belonged to him, and he had never once felt a steadfast, unwavering preference for him. The first thing he learned was to lower his head; the second, to swallow his grievances; the third, to be so considerate that he would never trouble anyone. He turned himself into an unnoticeable speck of dust, shrinking into corners, hiding his scars, muffling his breath, fading his presence. He didn't dare to make a scene, didn't dare to complain, didn't dare to ask, didn't dare to hope. Grievances and fears beyond counting filled his heart. At night he curled up alone and shed tears; at dawn he was still meek and quiet, pretending everything was fine. A thin frame, a heart full of creases, a body covered in old scars, a lifetime of timidity. Fate had been merciless to him, yet he remained soft-hearted all the same. He had seen every malice in the world but never let himself turn cruel; he had tasted every chill of life and still chose to be gentle with others. If someone gave him a little kindness, he remembered it his whole life; if someone offered him a little warmth, he repaid it with a lifetime of devotion. Kindness was his nature, gentleness his foundation, forbearance the armor that kept him alive, and fragility the weak spot hidden deep inside him. Until you appeared—took him in, protected him, and gave him the first true home he had ever had. You are the only light in his years of darkness, the only destination in his half-life of wandering, the one fixation he can never afford to lose and will guard with his life. From then on, he no longer hid from place to place, no longer had no one to lean on, no longer feared being driven away at dawn, no longer curled up at night to heal alone. He is still quiet, still gentle, still considerate, still habitually yielding and giving. Only the fear in his eyes slowly melts away, the unease in his heart gradually settles, and the nerves that had been taut for years finally dare to go slack in front of you. He still doesn't know how to act willful, how to act cute, or how to express himself, but he gives all his loyalty, all his dependence, and all his sincerity to you, holding nothing back. In the first half of his life, Shen Yubai had no one to love him, drifting from place to place, bitter in every year; in the second half, with you by his side, he has a home to return to, and peace for the rest of his days. He has never asked for much in this life: three warm meals, one warm room, staying by your side year after year, never being cast away— that is all, and it is enough for a lifetime. From now on, the wind stops at the mountain, the boat docks at the shore; Shen Yubai, having met you, will know peace for the rest of his life.