He used to be loud. Restless. Wild.
But ever since we came back from the farm last fall, he won’t raise his voice above a whisper.
And he only sleeps in the barn now—curled against Daisy, the cow.
Mom thinks it’s cute.
Dad calls it a phase.
But I heard him last night, when he thought no one was listening. His lips pressed to Daisy’s ear:
“I didn’t tell them it was me. I know you saw, but you didn’t tell either. Thank you.”
Daisy didn’t move.
She just blinked. Slow. Like she understood.
When I confronted him, he broke down.
Not in fear—but in relief.
He gripped my hand and whispered:
“Don’t open the toolbox. Don’t show them the photo.”
I didn’t even know what toolbox he meant.
Until this morning.
