The hallway felt like a gauntlet for ten-year-old Leo. Every day, the whispers followed him like a shadow—comments about his thick glasses, the way his voice occasionally cracked, or how he always sat alone at the back of the bus. To the other kids, he was just a target for easy punchlines.

One rainy Tuesday, Leo retreated to the music room during recess, seeking the humming silence of the piano. He didn’t notice Mr. Henderson, the janitor, mopping the floors nearby. Leo sighed, tracing a scratch on the wooden bench. "Tough day, kid?" Mr. Henderson asked softly.

"I just wish I was different," Leo muttered. "Maybe then they’d stop laughing."