The sight broke her heart in a way she had never quite experienced before. Leo lay curled on his side like a wounded animal seeking protection from an unseen threat.
His small fingers were clenched tightly into the fabric of the sheets, as though even in sleep he was bracing himself for something painful.
Tear tracks had dried along his cheeks, leaving faint, silvery lines against his flushed skin. His breathing was uneven—shallow and fragile—and every few moments a tremor passed through his thin frame, subtle but unmistakable.
Clara stood in the doorway for several seconds, unable to move. The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room.
It should have been a peaceful scene—a child resting after a long day. Instead, the air felt heavy with unspoken distress. The bedroom, normally filled with toys and warm colors, felt strangely oppressive.
She had noticed the changes in Leo over the past few weeks. The nightmares. The hesitation at bedtime. The way he flinched when she tried to smooth his hair or adjust his pillow.
At first, she had assumed it was a passing phase—children sometimes struggle with fears that have no clear source. But something about his exhaustion, the persistent dark circles beneath his eyes, and the quiet dread in his expression had unsettled her.
Now, seeing him like this—trembling even in sleep—her concern sharpened into something deeper. This was not just ordinary childhood anxiety. There was a cause. And she was determined to find it.
Clara approached the bed quietly, careful not to startle him. Each step felt deliberate, measured. She sat gently on the edge of the mattress and brushed a strand of hair away from Leo’s forehead.
His skin felt warm, though not feverish. As she watched him, she noticed how his head was angled slightly upward, almost unnaturally so, as if he were trying to avoid resting fully against the pillow.
That detail caught her attention.
With careful hands, she slipped one arm beneath his shoulders and lifted him slightly. He stirred but did not wake. With her other hand, she eased the ornate silk pillow out from under his head.
It was decorative—far more elaborate than the rest of the bedding. The cover was smooth and luxuriously soft, embroidered with subtle patterns that shimmered in the light.
She had never questioned it before.
Holding the pillow in her hands now, she felt something that didn’t seem right. It was heavier than it should have been.
When she pressed down lightly, instead of yielding softly beneath her touch, it resisted. There was an odd stiffness beneath the plush exterior—something rigid hidden within what should have been simple filling.
A cold unease crept into her chest.
