Hello, My Name is:

Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own My hero academia or anything by Hans Andersen or Doctor Seuss

(A/N sorry for my horribly disproportionate Izuku, I tried... I also realize that his arms aren't holding the book. whoops.)

-time skip to the morning after-

The boy awoke with uncomfortably stiff arms and a cold noes. He had left the door to the shipping container open so that his mother could come in. But now he was regretting it as he sneezed and groaned softly while removing his arms from around the book. 

Sacrificing a foot to the cold he kicked the door closed and then returned his limb to the warm confines of his blankets. Waiting a couple more moments for the courage to get out of his cozy bed, he looked back down to the book that had found itself back in his arms. 

Slowly he began to whimper. "w-Why didn't it work?" he mumbled in a longing filled sleepy voice. 

Poking his finger out from his blanket cocoon he traced his finger along the book's printed title: "Short Stories and Fairy Tales by: Hans Christian Andersen". (A/N: I'm not sure if this is the title of a real book or not, but Hans Christian Andersen is a real person who wrote stuff.)

Slowly reaching his hand from under the covers, the boy opened the book and began reading. Well... sort of. Rather quickly into his reading he was forced to come to the realization that he was definitely not fluent in English. Being able to know a strand of letters and their vaguely how to pronounce them was not the same as knowing what the words meant. 

This realization was followed by the desperate hope that once he finished the book his mother would come back. Quickly getting up to grab his two dictionaries, a pencil and a notebook; the boy dove back into his pile of blankets and looked back to the page.

~~time skip to a week later

The book was not a very large one, not by far, and only contained five stories. Of those five only the three in the middle had resisted time and had remained legible. Those three were: the little match girl, the story of a mother, and the ugly duckling. But in all, it took him about a week to finish the first two stories. 

Going between reading to translating, and writing his translations in his notebook. The boy slowly read the first story. Which wasn't the best because it forced him to learn and understand each of the words in the stories, and eventually realize how sad each story was. Sentence by tear filled sentence. 

After finishing the first story the child was horrified. He knew and understood the biting cold of winter and the desperation for warmth and comfort. He had immediately empathized with the little match girl because he too had been forgotten (-not forgotten, mama wouldn't forget me... right?) in the cold. Searching for some explanation and trying to ignore the match girls death, the kid continued reading. 

When he finally finished the second story, the emotionally shaken boy put down the book and curled up in the sand outside crying softly and wondering what his own mother had to go through to find him. Whatever beginnings of disappointment he had felt with his mother's prolonged absence left as though they were never there. 

Once he felt less distraught, the boy took the book and placed it under a stack of All Might figurines in an attempt to make himself feel better about the stories. It didn't really work.

That winter, the child didn't attempt to read the blue book again, he did however read other stories with happiness, particularly finding joy in an old and torn book titled: "Oh, the places you'll go!" by Doctor Seuss. 

And if the boy spent careful amounts of time tending his garden and added crocus flowers and matches to his list of precious things to find... well, no one was around to call him out for it. 

He did however, have the sense to stop himself from trying to listen to the plants in his garden after an angry wasp had decided to attack him. 

(A/N: if you haven't read the little match girl or the story of a mother by Hans Anderson, I recommend them, unless like me you have a horrible time reading sad stories, in which case be warned that they are sad and hot chocolate was required to make me feel better.)