"Mom?"
"Dad?"
Her voice trembled, brittle as she woke from sleep. Confused, she blinked into the sudden dark that had swallowed her room whole—normally kept at bay by a modest night light in the corner.
She squinted, searching for familiarity. The usual collage of elementary school art trophies and family photos that adorned her walls had vanished into the void.
She turned to the window, hoping for the glow of streetlights or maybe the neon haze of the nightly fireworks.
Nothing.
Just darkness—thick and quiet and far too complete.
Facing the mirror on her wardrobe, she waited, hoping her eyes would adjust.
"Mom? Dad?"
She tried again.
...
But once more, silence answered.
Slowly, the glow-in-the-dark stars pasted around the room began to pull their weight—those cheap phosphorescent stickers doing what grownups couldn't: showing up in the dark.
Her reflection emerged, faint and ghostlike.
Short-cropped hair catching the faint green light, brown skin bathed in an eerie glow.
Her wide, glassy eyes shimmered—like auroras trapped behind eyelashes.
She stared.
Not out of vanity, but something closer to hypnosis.
There was something haunting about seeing yourself when no one else sees you.
So haunting, in fact, she forgot why she'd even called out for her parents.
CLANG!
The sound of something metallic crashing nearby snapped her out of her trance.
Without a second thought, she clung to me[1]. Buried her small head against my stuffed, awkward body—like I was a shield made of cotton and misplaced hope.
She didn't say anything, but I knew. If something terrible were to crawl out of that darkness—a ghost, a monster, a government agent—she wanted me to stop it.
...
...
...
The sound of the falling can had long faded, but fear doesn't need sound to stick around. It lingers, seeping through the cracks of silence, looking for a way in.
She tried to call for her parents again—but this time, her mouth only opened. No sound came out. Just a quiet breath lost in a room already too quiet.
The glow-in-the-dark stars began to dim. Their small performance was nearly over.
Time was running out.
With short, careful steps, she darted toward the bedroom door—kicking, tripping, and stepping on scattered toys along the way, each one a tiny landmine of plastic pain. But she pressed on.
"I have to make it," she told herself.
Then she opened the door. And the darkness outside welcomed her like an old friend—with colder hands.
A gust of wind from the first floor swept in, sharp and unwelcome,
slithering past her ankles and up her spine.
This hallway—the upstairs one—was dim.
But what lay beyond the staircase was something else entirely.
The kind of dark that feels thick.
Wet.
Predatory.
Even the creak of the door as she opened it felt swallowed. No echo. Just silence devouring silence.
"Mom? Dad?"
She waited. Only her own voice came back, slightly delayed, as if the dark had chewed it first.
She looked down at me, slipped her hands into the holes in my tail and mouth—her usual way of keeping warm. I was built for hugs, not protection, but she didn't seem to mind.
"Din… stay with me, okay?" Her voice was barely audible.
She began walking. Through the hallway. Toward the stairs. At the top step, she stopped.
Her parents' bedroom was downstairs. So was the cold. And that strange, humming silence that didn't just surround her—it invited her.
It reached out, softly. Not to grab, but to cradle.
There was something mesmerizing in that hush. Something beautifully wrong.
It wrapped around her gently, a lullaby made of shadows, whispering sweet nothings with no mouth. And without knowing why, her small body leaned forward— as if the silence had offered her a hand.
Without realizing it, she began descending the stairs— drawn as if under a spell, lulled by the soft, ceaseless sorrow that wrapped the air like fog.
One step. Two steps. Three steps...
SREEEK—!
A sudden tug jerked her back to reality.
Part of me had snagged against the banister.
She turned to look at me, and—because children are blessed with strange faith—she smiled.
As if I had done it on purpose.
As if I had saved her.
As if I were the kind of stuffed thing that meant to get stuck just to stop her from going any further.[2]
...
Her gaze drifted downward again. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
And then—like a page turning—she remembered the clatter. The sound of the fallen can. It hadn't come from downstairs. It had come from the second floor. The painting studio.
Of course. That's where they would be.[3]
With sudden resolve, she climbed back up the stairs—tiny limbs full of purpose, full of hope—and turned toward the end of the hallway.
The closer she got to the studio door, the more the fear seemed to lift.
The air wasn't cold anymore. It was warm. Inviting, even.
Were they inside?
Had they simply not heard her? Maybe they had fallen asleep?
Or were they too caught up in their painting to notice? But how could anyone paint in this darkness?
The questions piled up like cluttered toys in her mind.
One after another, unanswered and waiting.
And then—
she was there.
Right in front of the door.
...
...
...
She took a deep breath. Her hand reached for the doorknob—cold as frozen sausage.
She flinched at the chill, but ignored it. Bravery sometimes means pretending not to notice the obvious.
Carefully, she turned the knob. The door creaked open... slowly.
"Mom...? Dad...?"
She wanted so badly to hear them respond.
...
But all she heard was the slow, deliberate
drip... drip... drip...
Her eyes dropped to the floor.
Canvas. A sea of it, spread wide across the room like a snowy field.
Every inch was stained—splattered with colors, streaks, and puddles of paint.
Chaotic, messy, angry.
Like something out of a Pollock painting.
She had learned about him a few months ago.[4]
Her gaze locked onto the patterns. The drip trails, the violent swirls—it was abstract, yes...
but also furious.
And restless.
And so deeply sad that her skin rose in goosebumps.
The dripping sound grew louder in her head, echoing like a slow metronome, keeping time in a room that had lost it.
...
"Wait... dripping?" Her eyes narrowed.
There—a spiral of drops, forming a tight circle around a dark shape.
The drops seemed to emanate from something.
No... from someone.
"...Feet?"
A chill washed over her.
She clutched me tightly, so tight that my tail bent awkwardly over her shoulder.
Then she looked up—slowly.
Trying to place the shape.
Trying to see a face.
Later, when she told me the story, she said she couldn't see it clearly.
Even after her eyes had adjusted, there was only a silhouette.
But it was a silhouette she knew by heart. From the backseat of a motorbike, from afternoons at the park, from thunderstorm nights where she'd crawl into the blankets between them.
"Dad?"
[1] Me. Obviously. Dino. The dinosaur-shaped hand warmer with a hole in my mouth and—yes—my butt.
Her dad says she’s clung to me since she was a baby. Sweet, right? Lies. Absolute propaganda.
Back then, she couldn’t go five minutes without cuddling that overpriced teddy bear from a Ph*l*ps lightbulb promo. I was second choice. A backup. A rebound plushie.
But look at me now—stuffed royalty in her trembling arms. Glory comes to those who wait.
[2] Of course not. I get stuck on things all the time—half my seams are torn open like I've been through war. That moment just pure coincidence. But sure—let's all pretend it was a noble act. A brave sacrifice.
[3] Honestly? Pretty sure that whole "let's go check the art studio" thing was just an excuse. She was scared. Too scared to go all the way downstairs—so she rerouted. Classic.
[4] To this day, I still don't get why that was ever called a painting. I remember it clearly: she was bored out of her mind, sick of painting, so she grabbed the brushes and paint cans and started banging on them like drums. Paint splattered everywhere—some of it landed on a blank canvas lying on the floor, purely by accident. Then her dad walked in, looked at the mess,and declared she had "the soul of a Pollock."
Next thing I know, he's giving her art lessons for months. Months. All because of a tantrum with rhythm.