Sunlight filtered gently through our suburban Cincinnati windows, painting the room in the warm hues of morning. For a fleeting moment, it felt like any other day, until my instincts screamed otherwise. Mothers have a radar for danger, a sense that something is off, and mine was blinking red.
I rubbed my eyes, smoothed my hair, and followed him to his bedroom. He sat on the edge of his bed, small shoulders hunched, face pale and strained. “It started last night,” he murmured. “But this morning it got worse.”
I touched his forehead—it was warm. I gently prodded for other signs, glanced at the pillow, and froze.
Bloodstains on pillow.
My breath caught in my throat. Small crimson spots dotted the once-white fabric. My hands trembled, pulse racing. What had happened while I slept? Was it a nosebleed? An accident? Or something far more sinister?
“Lucas… what happened?” I asked, voice quivering despite my efforts to remain calm.
“I… I don’t know,” he said, voice small, eyes wide with confusion. “I woke up, and it was already there.”
