Every morning, Calvin would shoot out the front door like a firecracker—yelling goodbye to the dog, waving his toy dinosaur, and racing toward the bus like it was the best part of his day. He was six, full of life, and grinning like he had a secret to share with the world.
But then, things began to dim.
At first, it was subtle. A missing smile. A quiet “good morning” barely whispered. Then came the stomachaches with no cause. Sleepless nights. The hallway light left on. And eventually… the drawings stopped.
Calvin, who once filled entire walls with dinosaurs and dragons, now handed me blank pages—or worse, angry black scribbles crumpled into balls.
