My nephew came to stay with me for the entire summer. From the first day, he wore black gloves. Every single day. Even inside the house. When I finally asked about it, he gave me a small, rehearsed smile and said, “Uncle… my hands are just sensitive.” At first, I didn’t push. But one morning, I quietly opened the bathroom door. He was at the sink. The gloves were off. And when I saw his palms… my heart nearly stopped.

Nate arrived at my house on a bright Saturday morning, the beginning of June. The kind of summer day that felt too good to be true. The sun was high, the air warm but not stifling. A perfect summer day, or so I thought.

I stood at the door, a little nervous. It had been a while since I’d seen him—since that Christmas dinner where he was a quiet shadow in the corner. Nate was my sister’s son, and after her death, he’d bounced from one temporary home to another. He was the kind of kid you’d meet and forget five minutes later, a polite ghost who never fully existed in your world. I was offering him a chance to spend the summer with us, to be a kid again, to have some space away from the unpredictability of his life.