The house was full of drink, bottles everywhere, but not a crumb of food in sight. Guests crowded the rooms, as they always did.
“All they do is drink, drink, drinkbottles pile up, but there’s nothing to eat. Not even a scrap of bread just empty cans and cigarette butts on the table,” murmured Leon, scanning the room once more, but found nothing worth eating.
“Alright, Mum, I’m going,” said the boy, slowly pulling on his worn-out shoes. He still hoped she might stop him, say something softlike, *”Where are you off to, love? You cant go out hungry, and its freezing. Stay put. Ill make porridge, shoo the guests out, scrub the floors.”*
He always waited for a gentle word, but his mother wasnt one for kindness. Her words were like thorns, making him want to curl up and hide.
This time, he decided to leave for good. At six years old, Leon felt old enough. First, hed need moneyenough for a bun, maybe even two. His stomach growled, demanding to be filled.
He didnt know how to get money, but walking past the shops, he spotted an empty bottle half-buried in snow. He rememberedbottles could be returned for cash. He pocketed it, then found a crumpled bag by the bus stop. He spent half the day collecting more.
The bottles clinked merrily in his sack. Already, he imagined biting into a warm, jam-filled bunraspberry, perhaps, or even apricot. But then he worried jam might cost extra, so he kept searching.
He wandered to the station. On the platform, where men drank beer waiting for trains, Leon set his heavy bag by a kiosk and dashed for another bottle. When he returned, a filthy, scowling man had taken his haul. Leon asked for it back, but the glare he got sent him scurrying away.
The dream of the bun dissolved like mist.
“Collecting bottles isnt easy,” Leon thought, drifting through snowy streets. The slush soaked his socks. His feet ached with cold. Night fell. He didnt remember climbing the stairwell, only curling against a radiator, slipping into warm sleep.
When he woke, he thought he was still dreamingit was warm, quiet, safe. The air smelled sweet.
A woman entered. She was beautiful, her gaze soft.
“Well, little one,” she said, “warmed up? Slept well? Come, lets have breakfast. Found you last night, curled up like a stray pup. Brought you home.”
“Is this my home now?” Leon whispered, hardly daring to hope.
“If youve none, then it is,” she replied.
What followed was like a fairy tale. This kind stranger fed him, dressed him, listened as he spoke of life with his mother. Her name*Liana*sounded magical to him. Hed never heard it before, and decided only a good fairy could bear such a name.
“Would you like me to be your mum?” she asked once, holding him tight, the way real mothers do.
He wanted it, more than anything
But happiness ended too soon. A week later, his mother came.
Nearly sober, she shouted at the woman whod taken him in. *”No ones stripped my rights! Hes mine!”*
As she dragged him away, snowflakes fell. The house behind them gleamed like a white castle under a spell.
Life grew harder. His mother drank. Leon ran away, slept in stations, scavenged bottles for bread. He spoke to no one, asked for nothing.
Eventually, his mother lost custody. Leon was sent to a childrens home.
There, he grew quiet, withdrawn. He drew the same scene over and overa white house, snow falling.
Three years passed.
Then a journalist visited. The matron introduced her.
“Leons a good lad, but he struggles to adapt. Were trying to find him a family.”
The journalist smiled. “Im Liana.”
Suddenly, Leon spokewords pouring out like a flood. His eyes shone, cheeks flushed. He told her of the other Liana, the kind one. The matron stared, astonished.
That name*Liana*was a golden key to his heart.
The journalist wept, promising to write about him. Maybe the real Liana would read it, come for him.
She kept her word.
And a miracle happened.
The woman wasnt a subscriber, but on her birthday, colleagues wrapped flowers in newspaper. Unfolding it, she saw the headline: *”Good Woman Liana, Leon Is Searching for You.”*
She knew at once.
When they met, he flew into her arms. Everyone criedLeon, Liana, the staff.
“I waited so long,” he whispered.
She couldnt take him immediatelypaperwork, proceduresbut she visited daily.
Later, life became normal, happy.
Now, at twenty-six, Leon has a degree, a fiancée, a mother he adores.
Once, she confessed: her husband left her because she couldnt have children. Shed been lonely, achinguntil she found a boy on a stairwell and loved him.
When his mother took him back, Liana had thought, *”I suppose it wasnt meant to be.”*
Finding him again at the home was joy beyond words.
Leon once tried tracing his birth mother. Shed vanished years ago with an ex-convict. He stopped looking.
Why bother? He had everything he needed.
