Two nights later, I was jolted awake by a sound that felt… deliberate.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Not from the front door.
From my bedroom window.
I hesitated, unsure if I was dreaming. Then I crept to the curtain and peeked through.
There he was.
Eli.
Barefoot. Pale. Standing in the damp grass like a ghost who hadn’t yet decided if he wanted to come inside.
I ran outside in my slippers. “Eli?! What—how did you find me?”
He didn’t speak. Just reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal toy car, warm from his palm. He pressed it into my hand.
“I don’t like the hospital,” he whispered. “They won’t let me talk to my dad.”
I crouched. “Which dad, sweetie?”
“The quiet one.”
I swallowed. “The one who doesn’t talk with his mouth?”
He nodded.
