"And they cry; and they call as the wayward walk alone..."

-Alter Bridge

Day in, day out, your day is the same.

Each and every day, you get up and go to the office, stopping only for a quick lunch, and both to and from the office building you're detoured slightly by territorial dogs – you never liked the slobbering beasts much – but you make it home safe and sound.

That is, until the day you meet a troll on the street on your way home and your whole life changes.

You've seen trolls before, in wealthy homes on television – and occasionally in a front yard or garden but no less wealthy – ones in fancy getups and gem-studded collars. Sweet fuzzy little things that babble in the universal language of infants and the occasional intelligible word or two. Those are also typically overweight and lazy.

This is not one of those pampered housepets.

The troll is very small, and thin, and has tiny horns that are just beginning to fork and branch off – by the time she's fully grown you figure they'll resemble the antlers of a deer – but otherwise are softly rounded nubs, and a jungle of tangled tawny-brown hair that cascades down her back, unlike the licorice-black hair you've seen on other trolls. This tiny troll – for she is so tiny she could have dressed in doll's clothes and they would have still been too big – is standing just beneath the bakery window with her little hands? paws? gripping the edge of the windowsill and trying to pull herself up so she can get a good look inside. Intrigued, you stand on the sidewalk for a moment to watch. After a moment she lets go, stares up at the window, then disappears around the corner into an alley and comes back a moment later pushing a box. It's old and a bit soggy, but she looks so small you have no doubt it will hold her weight. She stands for a moment, then vanishes again and comes back with another, smaller box, then another, and another, each one smaller than the last. Now she has a tiny staircase made up of old thrown-away boxes and she climbs up them one at a time until she's standing on the biggest one, with her thin arms propping her up on the windowsill as she looks in at the bread and other baked goods. Then she notices your reflection in the window and sees you watching, and turns to you and smiles and waves before turning back to the window.

You stand and watch a minute longer, then continue on your way to return home. The troll is all but forgotten.

Next day, same route. The troll is still there, standing outside the bakery, staring into the window. She seems a bit drenched. You have a rousing suspicion that she was either doused with a hose or bucket of water from the bakery owner, or splashed by a passing vehicle. If it was the first, it certainly hasn't deterred her, because she's still there. She looks so thin, and you don't see a collar; actually, you don't see any clothing at all: she's bare as a newborn's behind. Most likely a stray, or someone's runaway pet. But there is no way she could not have had an owner at some point. She would not have known to stack those boxes like she had, nor would she have smiled and waved at you yesterday in such a friendly, human manner.

In an instant, your mind is made up.

You were running out of bagels anyway.

It takes two seconds for the troll to learn that you've brought her food, and in no time she's devouring the bagel you'd given her. You keep having to remind her to slow down or she'll make herself sick, but you understand her eagerness. This is probably the first thing she's eaten in a good while.

When she's slowed down enough that it's come to about one tiny bite per minute, you decide to ask her a few questions; no harm in seeing if she can talk. At first all you recieve are nods or headshakes, but you figure that's mostly because of the food occupying her attention. Then you ask her where is she from and how did she end up here on the street and she swallows and starts talking. Her speech is in broken, childish sentences, but that's to be expected, and for the record it's much better than you thought it would be, judging from the trolls you'd seen on television.

"Useta lif inna woods wif Granny and Grampa. Liked it lots. One day Granny falled sleep. She no wake up. Den peoples comed and taked Grampa way. Leaf Halien wif nasty peoples. Put leash on, lif out in doggyhouse. Doggy not nice. Doggy bite." It's at this moment that you see bite marks and scabs and small scars on her arms and legs, and a tiny cut that mars the bridge of her nose. "Sometimeses peoples no gif Halien food or anyfin. So me runned way, look for peoples be my friend. You be my friend?" She holds out a very tiny hand? paw? with a big smile on her face and your heart breaks.

You tell her of course you will.

You decide to take her home with you right then and there, and you two make an odd sight: the tall, pale woman crouched and shuffling along so the very tiny troll can grip at her fingers and toddle alongside her. But you don't give two shits, and you don't think she does either.

Of course when you get home, Kanaya asks for an explanation the instant she sees the troll, and you settle Halien down in front of the television first to keep her entertained before telling your wife what the tiny troll told you: the death of one of her previous owners and – you assume – the other being taken away to a retirement home and her being left in the custody of whoever the old couple's children were and her poor treatment and her running away – which Kanaya even agrees seems like the most sensible thing to do. When you're done explaining, she looks into the living room and studies the bony troll on the couch and you can see her heart breaking just as yours did. Then she tells you that Halien can stay – only if her story is true, and she is your responsibility. But that's pretty much a straightforward yes, because the only honest people in the world are small children and the drunk.

Before anything else can be done, Halien needs to be bathed and clothed. Luckily she allows you to plunk her in the tub and wash her without complaint. Definitely not a feral troll, with the way she is squealing in joy and patting at the bubbles. The only difficult part is getting her dressed; old t-shirts slide right off, even old ones from your childhood days that you meant to give to charity long ago. In the end you have to go out and buy a newborn's onsie, just for the sake of her having something to wear, and a child's toothbrush and toothpaste. By the time she's dressed and her sharp little teeth are brushed, she's asleep on her feet and clinging weakly to your skirt, and you notice as though for the first time – though you've always known it – that other than her horns and pale gray skin she looks just like anyone's child. You set up a pile of blankets on the couch – you remember reading something about trolls liking to nest in just about anything soft – and she sinks in and disappears when you set her on it.

Kanaya looks at you when you sit down next to the pile on the couch and shakes her head; while you were gone shopping she took the liberty of looking at missing pet and troll ads. No one was looking for a lost troll. Surely someone would have noticed she was gone, unless they just didn't care in the slightest. The latter seems much more likely.

You sigh, then look at the pile of blankets on the couch next to you; a tiny gray hand is peeping out and gripping one of the blankets.

Looks like she's here to stay.