Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive. That was the first thing that came to mind when I saw him. He was a man of average height, with a lean build and a weathered face. His eyes were sharp and alert, and his movements were quick and precise. He looked like he had been through a lot, and I knew that he had a story to tell.

I approached him cautiously, not knowing what to expect. He looked up at me as I drew near, and I could see the suspicion in his eyes. I introduced myself and asked him if he needed any help. He hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

We sat down on a bench nearby, and he began to speak. He told me about his life before the disaster, about his family and his work. He spoke of the day that everything changed, when the world as he knew it came crashing down around him.

He told me about the struggle to survive, about the things he had to do to stay alive. He spoke of the people he had lost, and the ones he had left behind. He told me about the darkness that had consumed him, and the light that had brought him back.

As he spoke, I began to understand. I saw the pain in his eyes, and the hope that still burned within him. I saw the strength that had kept him going, and the courage that had brought him through.

And I knew that I could trust him.