Until my hand brushed the bear.
Something inside it clicked.
The sound was small, but sharp enough to make my chest tighten, followed by a burst of static that didn’t belong in something so simple. Then a voice came through, faint but unmistakable, trembling in a way that made it feel real.
It said my son’s name.
And then it asked for help.
For a moment, I couldn’t move, because nothing about that made sense, and yet there it was, a child’s voice coming from inside a toy, calling out in a way that felt too desperate to ignore. I looked at Mark, but he was still asleep, completely unaware of what had just happened.
Carefully, I took the bear from his arms and carried it out of the room, my mind racing through every possible explanation. In the kitchen, under bright light, I reopened the seam I had just stitched, pushing past the stuffing until my fingers touched something solid.
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