It was a message from my daughter, Lily.
That was not common.
He was only eight years old.
I knew how to use the phone, of course — but I also knew that I was only three rooms away, preparing for his recital.
I opened the message.
The phrase was simple — but every word seemed carefully chosen.
It was not like his usual messages, full of emojis and writing errors.
There was something… strange.
Something that got my stomach tightened.
“Only you. Close the door.”
Too careful.
Too specific.
A cold and unexpected fear began to expand inside me.
“Everything right up there?” my wife Claire called from below.
His voice was light, accompanying the soft jazz that sounded in the kitchen.
“Already low!” I replied.
But even I heard my own voice.
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