The young parents observed their eldest son going into his younger brothers room each morning at

That morning, after her sons left for school, she sat at the kitchen table for a long time, staring at her untouched coffee. Her mind raced.

Nightmares, she told herself. It had to be nightmares. Children saw things in the dark all the time—shapes, shadows, tricks of the light. Still, she couldn’t ignore how real it sounded to him.

That night, she brought it up to her husband, David.

He listened quietly, trying not to smile. “Honey, he’s just got an overactive imagination,” he said gently. “He’s been reading those adventure books lately. Remember when he thought the attic was haunted because of the wind?”

She nodded but didn’t answer. Something about this felt different.