Eli, a quiet, autistic boy with thoughtful eyes, sat cross-legged near his sandals, tracing the outline of the faded straps with his finger. The room hummed with the distant whir of a fan and the soft clinking of dishes from the kitchen. The sandals, though battered and small, seemed to radiate comfort and familiarity, their soles molded perfectly to his feet.

Mom gently knelt beside Eli, her voice low and kind. "Sweetheart, your feet have grown so much. I think it's time we try these new sandals," she offered, holding out the box. Eli hugged his knees to his chest, glancing anxiously at his old sandals, unwilling to let them go.

"But these sandals are open-toed," Eli protested, his voice earnest and insistent. Mom sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. "I know you love them, Eli. But soon, they won't fit at all," she said, her tone soft yet firm.

Eli stopped in his tracks, heart pounding as he stared down at the broken sandal, the strap dangling uselessly. He knelt on the grass, picking up the piece, his hands trembling. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he pressed his lips together, determined to fix what he could not bear to lose.

"I can fix them. I know I can," Eli murmured, carefully trying to reconnect the strap. Dad exchanged a look with Mom, concern etched on his face. "Sometimes things can’t be fixed, buddy. Maybe it’s time for a new adventure with new sandals," he suggested gently.

Eli lay awake, his old sandals resting beside him, one strap clumsily taped but still broken. He reached out, touching the worn leather, then glanced at the new pair—bright, untouched, full of possibility. With a deep breath, he slid his feet into the new sandals, feeling the unfamiliarity, but also, perhaps, the promise of comfort yet to come.