The moment you walk in you know him. The space is small, which reminds you he doesn’t need or ask for much. Prints tell you where he’s from, pictures tell you who he loves, medals tell you what he’s done, and books remind you, remind him of a time of innocence, a place of escape to a world unlike his, to a people who save mankind perhaps even saving him from the cruel world around him.

But what you know of him is more than his possessions.

There are two lamps. He likes it bright. It’s how he lives life, he shines. His bed is central to everything; everything else is peripheral. It is where he spends time with his love, making memories to last a lifetime. It’s where they laugh, and love, and write each others’ stories. His bed is also where he can rest. Rest is critical because he knows that without rest he can’t run, he can’t read, and he can’t make sense of his life, of where he’s come from and who he has the privilege to live this life with.

His room. His life. One and the same. It’s who he is.