Dinner looked ordinary—herbed chicken, rice, vegetables. Nothing suspicious. But the moment I took a bite, a strange numbness spread across my tongue.
Then my throat.
Then everything.
I looked at Noah. His eyes were unfocused now, glassy.
“Mom… I feel weird,” he murmured. “I’m so tired…”
Caleb gently placed a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Just relax.”
That softness chilled me more than anything.
My body began to fail me. The room tilted. My hands lost strength. I collapsed into the chair, gripping the table as everything blurred.
The last thing I heard was Noah’s voice.
“Mom…?”
Then darkness.
But I didn’t fully lose consciousness.
Somewhere in the haze, I felt the floor beneath me. Smelled detergent from the rug. Heard footsteps—slow, deliberate.
Caleb.
He stood over us.
I felt a light nudge against my shoulder. Testing me.
When I didn’t react, he whispered:
“Good.”
I stayed still.
Minutes passed… or maybe longer.
Then the door opened. Cold air rushed in. It closed again. Silence followed.
He was gone.
“Mom…”
Noah’s voice.
Weak—but alive.
I reached for his hand. He squeezed back.
That was enough.