The hallway clock struck nine with a slow metallic echo, the kind that seemed to crawl through the walls and settle in your chest like a quiet warning you couldn’t ignore.
I lay perfectly still beneath the blanket, breathing carefully, letting my eyelids stay half-closed as if sleep had already carried me somewhere deep and unreachable.
Daniel’s footsteps came exactly when they always did—soft and measured—crossing the old wooden floor with a patience that made every creak feel intentional.
Our house had always made noises at night, but since Mom d!3d those sounds had changed, as if the walls themselves had begun listening.
The door to my room opened slowly, and the faint hallway light stretched across the floor until it reached the edge of my bed.
I kept my breathing slow and heavy, the way people breathe when they are deeply asleep, though my heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might betray me.
Daniel stood beside the bed for several seconds without speaking, simply watching.
I could feel his eyes on my face, searching for something, perhaps waiting until he believed I was truly unconscious.
Then he whispered softly, almost tenderly, “Good night, Lily.”
The voice sounded like my brother’s, but something in the silence afterward did not.
A soft clink came from the cup he had left on the bedside table, as if he were checking whether the tea had been touched.
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