You stand in the doorway.
She senses you. “Coffee’s ready,” she says.
You don’t move. “Who was outside our room last night?”
The spoon stops.
Just for a second.
Then she resumes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The lie is too careful.
“You took my hand,” you say. “And you moved into the light.”
She sets the spoon down and turns, her eyes already tired. “Please… not here.”
“Then where?”
She glances toward the stairs. “Tonight. On the roof.”
You should push now.
But something in her face—fear stretched thin into politeness—stops you.
“Tonight,” you agree.
All day, the house feels wrong.
Your mother moves around downstairs, complaining about her knee. Mateo comes in later, yawning, kissing your cheek, acting normal—but when he looks at Sofia, something flickers in his face. Recognition. Gone as quickly as it came.
You feel it like cold air.
For the first time, a thought forms that you immediately want to reject.
What if Sofia isn’t afraid of the dark?
What if she’s afraid of him?
You push it away.
Not Mateo.
Not your husband.
And yet the thought doesn’t leave.
That night, at 1:13 a.m., the sound comes again.
Click.