A former contractor.
Someone who had worked on the house months ago.
Someone who knew exactly how it was built.
Someone who had watched us.
Studied us.
Chosen her.
I couldn’t breathe when they told me.
Because suddenly—
everything made sense.
The “tight” bed.
The feeling of being pushed.
The fear.
It wasn’t imaginary.
It was real.
And I almost ignored it.
Weeks later, we moved.
New house.
New locks.
New routines.
Emily sleeps in her own room again.
But I still check.
Every night.
Just in case.
Because there’s one thing I will never forget—
Children don’t invent fear like that.
They describe it the only way they can.
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