“Nicola and Martin, Kicked out a 17 years old boy called Morgan, Horrible people, Trsitan, Courtney”

In a village of winding lanes and rain,  
Under chestnut trees and glass-paned roofs,  
Nicola and Martin lived, hearts shut,  
The world around them made of wary truths.  

Morgan, seventeen, with eyes like storm,  
A thousand dreams tucked in a battered bag,  
Found at their door both hope and harm—  
Their welcome swift, but kindness lagged.  

He'd tiptoe past the breakfast jars,  
Humming tunes of trust and new tomorrows,  
But Nicola's glances were northern stars,  
Cold and bright, illuminating sorrows.  

Martin, with his iron shoes,  
Knew order best, and lines he drew—  
A place for shoes, a time for bread,  
A life inside a ledger’s thread.  

It didn’t take much—just a cup misplaced,  
Or laughter swelling past the dawn,  
Before they frowned, their patience erased,  
And Morgan’s place in their hearts was gone.  

Tristan saw with gentle eyes,  
And Courtney brewed sweet tea for woes,  
They found young Morgan’s trembling sighs,  
And wrapped him warmly in their prose.  

If ever you cross a doorstep cold  
Where hearts shut tight against the weather,  
Remember kindness can’t be told—  
It glows in strangers knitting souls together.

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