Claire moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, the scent of eggs and toast already filling the air. The kettle whistled faintly behind her, and she reached over to switch it off, glancing briefly at the packed lunch she'd set aside for Ethan. A sandwich, apple slices, and a juice box — enough to get him through his day.
From the hallway, she could hear the soft rev of a toy car.
"Ethan," she called out, not looking up, "remember what I said about your uniform. Don't get it dirty before school."
There was no answer. Just the low hum of a plastic wheel gliding across the floor, then a bump against the wall.
Claire sighed lightly, a half-smile tugging at the edge of her lips. Boys will be boys.
In the living room, Ethan continued zooming his toy car along the walls, spinning around furniture legs and under the coffee table, completely absorbed. His backpack sat on the couch, unzipped. His shoes, untied.
As he rounded the corner into the hallway, something made him stop.
A soft tune had started playing from his parents' bedroom. An old melody. Slow and strange — not anything he'd heard from the TV or radio. Curious, Ethan crept toward the slightly open door.
The music grew louder as he approached.
The bedroom lights flickered.
He hesitated at the threshold, fingers tightening around the small red car in his hand. Then he stepped inside.
The door swung shut behind him with a dull thud.
Ethan blinked. The music player on the nightstand was lit up, spinning a record that hadn't been touched in months.
Then — bang — the window flung open, slamming against the wall. A gust of wind burst through, knocking over a lamp and sending papers scattering to the floor. The curtains fluttered wildly like something was trying to get in… or out.
Ethan stood frozen, eyes locked on the window. His toy car slipped from his hand.
Downstairs, Claire was still buttering toast, unaware. "Ethan?" she called again. "Shoes on. We're almost late."
No response.
Ethan took slow, careful steps toward the window. The breeze that poured in was colder now, brushing against his skin with a whisper of something strange—almost like it was calling to him.
And then he saw her.
The same girl.
She stood just beyond the tree line across from their backyard—still, quiet, and barefoot. Her pale dress moved slightly in the wind, and her hair hung around her face like a curtain. She raised one hand and pointed directly at him. Then, without a word, she turned and walked into the woods.
Ethan climbed onto the window ledge, his small hands gripping the frame as he hoisted himself up. One leg out, then the other. The red car was forgotten on the floor as he slipped out and dropped quietly to the grass below.
He didn't look back.
Inside the kitchen, Claire sprinkled a pinch of salt into the pan and turned to pour juice into Ethan's water bottle.
"Ethan?" she called again, expecting to hear the tapping of feet or a reply from the hallway. "Ethan, honey? Come on, it's time."
She waited. Silence.
The toy car that usually hummed and crashed around by now made no sound.
Her chest tightened a little. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she stepped into the hallway and looked around.
"Ethan?"
She checked the living room. Nothing. His shoes were still there. His bag untouched.
A trace of unease swept over her as she started walking through the house, calling his name louder now.
"Ethan? Baby, answer me."
Still no reply.
She turned toward her bedroom, the last place left to check. As she reached for the handle—
It didn't move.
The door was locked from the inside.
She knocked, harder now. "Ethan? Are you in there?"
She pressed her ear to the door.
Nothing but the sound of the wind still seeping in through the open window.
Claire's heart began to pound faster. She pressed her hand flat against the door again.
"Ethan… sweetheart, it's Mommy," she said, trying to stay calm. "Open the door for me, please."
Silence.
She knocked harder, then jiggled the handle again. Still locked.
"Okay," she muttered under her breath, backing up a step.
With a burst of urgency, she shoved forward with her shoulder. The wood groaned once, twice—then the door swung open with a crack.
"Ethan?"
But there was no Ethan.
The room was empty.
The music had stopped. The eerie calm left behind made the silence feel heavier. Claire's eyes scanned the space. Papers lay scattered across the floor, like they had been disturbed in a rush. The curtains flapped gently by the open window, and outside, the trees rustled with the wind.
She walked slowly toward the window, dreading what she might—or might not—see.
She leaned out, eyes searching the yard, the edge of the woods beyond.
No sign of him.
"Ethan?" she called, voice rising with worry now. "Ethan!"
Nothing.
Panic gripped her chest.
Without another thought, she turned and ran. Out of the bedroom, down the hallway, through the front door—barefoot, forgetting the stove, forgetting everything else—as she dashed outside and toward the woods.
"Ethan!" she cried again, louder this time, voice breaking.