It was 3 a.m. when I woke, groggy and parched, pulled out of sleep by the dry ache of my throat. The house was steeped in that fragile kind of quiet that only the early hours hold — the low hum of the refrigerator, the faint rattle of the furnace, and, somewhere down the street, the distant beep of an alarm clock belonging to someone else’s life. I padded barefoot across the cold floor toward the kitchen, poured a tall glass of water, and lifted it to my lips.
Just as I was about to take a long sip, a voice floated softly from the hallway.
“Mom, can you turn off the light?”
It was so ordinary, so familiar — the exact tone my son always used when he wanted something small, something immediate. I didn’t question it. Half-asleep, I was running on autopilot. I set the glass down, walked down the hall, and with a flick of my hand turned off the lamp in his room.
Back in bed, I slid under the blankets, letting the silence wrap around me again. For a few moments, everything felt normal — the steady beat of my heart, the weight of the duvet, the comfort of routine. And then it hit me. A realization that snapped me upright and sent a chill down my spine.
My son wasn’t home.
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