“Why He Never Left His Brother Alone at Night”
His eyes were open wide, not with fear, but with a depth of thought that seemed far beyond his age. It was the kind of seriousness that made adults stop and listen. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and measured, almost careful.
“Mom,” he said quietly, “I hear someone talking to him when he’s asleep.”
The words settled heavily between them.
She felt her pulse hitch, a reaction she didn’t choose. Not panic — something deeper. Instinct.
He continued before she could respond. “It happens every night. Always at the same time. I hear voices near his crib.” He paused. “But it’s not him.”
A strange coldness traced her arms, not quite fear, but something close enough to make her aware of every breath she took. The house had always felt familiar after dark — the steady warmth from the heater, the soft sighs of the old floors, the gentle rhythm of a sleeping baby.
She had never heard anything else.
No murmurs. No strangers in the night.
Yet the way her son spoke made doubt impossible.
There was no playfulness in him, no thrill of telling a scary story. His face carried a sense of duty, of quiet concern, as though he were reporting something important rather than imagining it.
She lowered herself to his height, keeping her voice even. “What kind of voices?” she asked softly.
Her eyes searched his face for the usual signs — confusion, fantasy, a dream remembered too clearly. She found none.
Instead, he looked down at his baby brother, asleep in his arms, small and unaware.
“It sounds like someone teaching him,” he said after a moment. “I don’t know what they’re saying. But I know it’s important.” He swallowed. “And I think I’m supposed to watch over him. Like that’s why I hear it.”