They said, “Papa, you’ll be more comfortable there. You won’t be alone.” But comfort isn’t four walls. Comfort is family. And I lost mine the day they left me there. The first night, I couldn’t sleep. The room was filled with strangers, but silence was louder than everything. I kept waiting for a call, a message, anything. Nothing came. I used to have a big house once. Laughter filled the rooms. Festivals felt alive, neighbors came and went, my grandchildren played on my shoulders. Now, festivals are just another day. I sit quietly, watching others meet their families, while mine forgets me. One day, a volunteer asked: “Uncle, what do you want the most?” I smiled faintly and said: “A hug from my son.” But that hug never came. Now, I spend my evenings staring at the gate, pretending someone will walk in. Every footstep outside makes my heart race. But they always pass by. Not for me. Never for me. I am not angry at my children. I am not bitter. I just wonder… How can people forget...