imagined.
My body was still shaking from exhaustion. Every muscle felt heavy, weak, and sore. The sharp, sterile scent of the hospital room mixed with the faint sweetness of a newborn. Somewhere down the hall, machines beeped softly. Nurses had just wheeled my baby away for routine checks, promising to bring him back soon.
My husband, Mark Reynolds, had stepped out to take a phone call.
For a brief moment, it was quiet.
Then my eight-year-old daughter, Emily Carter, leaned close to my face. Her eyes were wide, her lips trembling.
“Mom,” she whispered urgently, “you need to get under the bed. Right now.”
There was no playfulness in her voice. No hint of imagination or drama. Just fear. Real fear.
I tried to smile, to calm her, even as my heart began to race.
“Emily,” I murmured weakly, “what are you talking about?”
She shook her head, tears already forming. “There’s no time. Please. They’re coming.”
“They?” I echoed.
Her fingers wrapped tightly around my hand, cold and stiff. Her gaze darted toward the door.
Leave a Comment