I woke up at 3 a.m. to get a glass of water. As I walked down the hall, I clearly heard my son’s voice from his bedroom:
“Mom, can you turn off the light?”
Without thinking, I opened the door and flicked the switch off. His voice had sounded so normal, so casual, that I didn’t question it.
But as I got back into bed, a chill ran through me. My son wasn’t home. He was away on a camping trip with his friends.
My heart dropped. I rushed back to his room. The air felt icy cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. His bed was perfectly made, untouched.
Then I noticed the closet door was slightly ajar. From the darkness inside, I heard it again — the same voice, this time whispering:
“Thanks, Mom.”
I froze, every instinct telling me not to move.
