I had given birth barely two hours earlier when the hospital door eased open and my eight-year-old daughter, Rebecca, slipped inside. Her steps were quick, careful—too careful for a child. Before I could even smile at her, she rushed to the window, yanked the curtains shut, and hurried to my bedside with a pale, terrified face.
“Mom,” she whispered, trembling, “you have to get under the bed. Right now.”
There was no panic in her voice—only certainty. Something inside me listened before my brain caught up. My body was aching from delivery, but Rebecca helped me slide off the mattress, and we crawled beneath the bed together. She pulled the blanket down so no one could see us.
The cold floor pressed against my skin. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but Rebecca shook her head sharply.
Then came the footsteps.
Slow, heavy, and deliberate.
Rebecca squeezed my hand so tightly it hurt. I saw fear in her eyes—real, urgent fear—and every instinct in me snapped awake.
The footsteps stopped beside the bed.
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