I thought life in our small Midwestern town was predictable—neighbors waving hello, kids riding bikes, and the occasional lost dish at a potluck causing minor drama. I was wrong.
I’m Eve, a mother of two. Ethan, my 15-year-old, is compassionate and sometimes moody, and Lily, my youngest, is a cheerful seven-year-old. But one summer afternoon, everything changed.
At the community pool, I heard Ethan shout and saw him dive into the deep end. A little girl, no more than four years old, had slipped underwater. In an instant, Ethan reached her, pulling her safely to the surface. Her mother rushed over, tears streaming, hugging her tightly and thanking Ethan for saving her child.
The next morning, photos of Ethan’s heroism were everywhere on social media. Messages of gratitude and pride poured in from neighbors and strangers alike. Yet Ethan remained humble, insisting, “I just saw her and moved.”
Then, the unexpected happened. A mysterious note appeared at our doorstep, asking me to bring Ethan to an old mansion on the outskirts of town. Curiosity—and a hint of nervous excitement—led us there the next day.
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