This is based off Jill Dawson's book Wild Boy.

So there he is, Victor, all grown up now. He is big, but he still has his too-large eyes and shaggy black hair. He still has the stare, the stare that looks not at you but into you, beyond your appearance and into the very depths of your heart.

He remembers the feel and the sound of the forest; the soft leaves that he would bury himself in, the rough bark that he would use to scratch his back. He misses those, but not as much as he used to.

He has learnt words now, mon dieu, lait, and he still makes that lli sound. She never understands what the lli word means; he has the word for it, but he cannot say it.

He lives now with Madame Guérin, chopping wood, helping around in the house. He can answer the door now, and he communicates a little better than he did as a boy. But the scar, the great big scar that runs across his throat, has not left him. It is still there.

And he wonders, sometimes, why he is here. But he does not care, because Madame Guérin comes with an earthen bowl filled with peas. The sameness of shelling them, taking them apart, calms him. He does not raise hell as he use to when he has to set the table.

She takes good care of him.

Why then, does she not understand that he is calling to her? lli, lli, he says, but she never comprehends. She cannot comprehend. It saddens him, that she does not know that he calls to her, that he needs her.

But he does not make a fuss. He just continues making his lli sound.

He takes care of her in her old age, doing his chores without a fuss. He answers the door, and when Itard came to see him he was happy. This was the doctor, the doctor who had taken care of him when he had been the wild boy from Averyon.

And then when the doctor leaves, he feels a sort of sadness; but he knows Madame Guérin is still there. To take care of him, to nurse him, to guide him. A simple, crass figure, but who shows him care.

He remembers the woman sometimes; Dominique, her name was. She was soft and smelt like roses, nothing like the big figure of Madame Guérin. He does not call to her; in fact he barely remembers her now. His father too. Jacques-Pierre, they call. Come here, Jacques-Pierre. It means nothing to him. He is Victor, and he answers to Madame Guérin's calls.

Madame Guérin complains, but in the end she is always there for him, and he is always there for her.

This is love.

So he just goes on calling for her, lli, lli, and hoping that, one day, she understands.