She didn’t know where the strength came from, but she stepped forward.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, voice trembling. “What are you doing in my house—in my son’s room?”

  Sai didn’t turn at first. He remained seated at Kun’s bedside, hands folded neatly in his lap. His posture was calm, almost reverent—like he belonged there more than she did.

  “I was keeping him company,” he said softly. “He’s been so lonely.”

  “Get away from him,” she snapped, advancing another step.

  This time, Sai turned.

  His face was pale, far too pale for a boy his age, his black eyes impossibly deep. Not just dark—bottomless. He studied her in silence, head tilted slightly to one side, a faint smile curling his lips.

  “You weren’t here when he needed you,” he whispered. “You were late.”

  She flinched. “Don’t—don’t talk like you know anything—”

  “But I do.” His voice remained gentle. Too gentle. “You forgot him today, didn’t you? You said you’d come home early. He waited.”

  “I was working—he knows that—”

  Sai rose slowly to his feet, never breaking eye contact. “Working so hard you didn’t notice the bruises under his sleeves years ago? The nights he didn’t eat dinner? The days he came home and didn’t say a word, and you were too tired to ask why.”

  Her lips parted, but no sound came.

  Sai stepped forward again, and suddenly he was too close—closer than she could bear. “He cried alone. Every night. For months. And you didn’t even hear him.”

  “I—stop—” her voice cracked. “Who are you?! What are you doing to him?!”

  “I’m doing what you didn’t,” Sai whispered. “I’m listening.”

  Behind him, Kun stirred in the bed. Fevered, sweating, barely conscious—but a soft sound escaped his lips:

  “…Mom…?”

  She reached for him, but Sai stepped in front of her.

  His smile faded.

  “You shouldn’t touch him,” he murmured. “Not now. Not after everything.”

  The lights flickered violently—once, twice—before plunging the room into near darkness.

  Only the dim hallway bulb remained, casting Sai’s silhouette like a black shadow across the wall.

  She backed away, pulse racing. “You’re… you’re not real. You’re not real.”

  Sai’s head tilted again.

  “Neither is your version of him.”

  Then, so quiet she almost didn’t hear it:

  “You don’t deserve him.”

  And before she could scream, before she could even move—

  The door slammed shut in her face.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  The moment the door slammed shut, she rushed forward, grabbing the knob—twisting, yanking, shaking it violently.

  “Kun!” she cried. “Kun, open the door! Baby, can you hear me?!”

  No answer.

  The knob was ice-cold, freezing beneath her palm. Her skin stuck to the metal like frostbite was setting in, and she gasped, pulling her hand away.

  “Please—let me in! Let me—!”

  She threw her shoulder against the door. Once. Twice. A third time. The wood didn’t budge. It didn’t even creak.

  It was as if the door had become a wall—immovable, impossible.

  Inside, she heard something. A soft hum.

  Faint, childlike. A lullaby.

  “…Sleep little boy, don’t open your eyes… something’s waiting in the quiet tonight…”

  “No—no, no—!” she slammed both fists against the door now. “Stop it! Leave him alone!”

  Her voice echoed down the hallway, but the house did not answer. Instead, the lights behind her began to flicker and dim. One by one, they sputtered out, like dying breath.

  She turned, heart pounding.

  The hallway was longer than she remembered.

  Wasn’t… wasn’t the bathroom right behind her?

  Now, only a corridor stretched on—longer than it should’ve been—its edges swallowed by shadow. The wallpaper peeled like skin, and the ceiling groaned.

  The house was changing, glasses are shattering.

  “No—no, Let him go—!”

  She spun back to the door and began to pound it again, sobbing now. “Kun, please! I’m here—I’m here now, okay?! Please open the door—I didn’t know—I didn’t know you were hurting—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

  She pressed her ear to the door.

  From inside came the soft sound of Sai’s voice.

  “It’s okay, Kun. I’m here now.”

  A pause.

  “I won’t let her in. You don’t need her anymore.”

  Then silence.

  She froze.

  And then—

  A faint sound from inside, so soft it made her heart seize:

  Kun crying.

  Small, choked sobs muffled beneath a blanket.

  And Sai’s whisper, soothing and deadly:

  “…Shhh. Don’t cry. Just sleep. I’ll take care of everything now…”

  Her knees buckled.

  “No—no, no, no—please—”

  She screamed until her voice broke, fists bruised from pounding the door. But it didn’t open.

  It never did.