Because in the end, it was never a threat.
It was never a mystery.
No warning hum, no gradual dimming—just instant darkness swallowing the entire house. The kind of darkness that feels almost physical, pressing against your eyes and disorienting your sense of space. The refrigerator stopped its quiet noise, the clock went silent, and even the faint glow of standby lights disappeared.
For a moment, I just stood there, trying to adjust.
Then I remembered the candles under my son’s bed.
I moved slowly through the hallway, guided only by memory and the faint outline of furniture I had walked past a thousand times before. The house felt different in the dark—larger, quieter, unfamiliar in a way that made even the smallest sound feel amplified. Every step echoed slightly too long, as if the walls were listening.
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When I reached his room, I knelt down carefully beside the bed. The air down there was still and slightly dusty, the kind of forgotten space where things accumulate over time—lost socks, broken toys, random objects that children insist are “important” even when they can no longer explain why.
