Your heart pounds so violently you’re certain whoever stands outside the door can hear it through the wood.

You don’t yet understand what’s happening, but one instinct rises with perfect clarity: Sofia isn’t in your bed because she’s strange. She’s there because she’s protecting someone.

The light lingers a moment longer.

Then it disappears.

A faint shuffle follows in the hallway—so soft it could be mistaken for pipes or wind—and then silence settles over the house, heavy and suffocating.

Sofia keeps her hand over yours beneath the blanket, warm and steady, until your breathing slows enough not to betray panic. On the other side, your husband Mateo sleeps with infuriating peace, one arm tossed above his head, unaware—or pretending to be.

You lie awake, rigid, for what feels like forever.

When Sofia finally lets go, she doesn’t whisper. She simply lies back down, staring into the dark, waiting for morning to come.

At dawn, she’s already in the kitchen.

She stands at the stove in a simple cotton dress, stirring oatmeal as if the night had been ordinary. Morning light touches her face, soft and quiet. If not for what you saw, you might have convinced yourself it was a dream.

You stand in the doorway.

She senses you. “Coffee’s ready,” she says.

You don’t move. “Who was outside our room last night?”

The spoon stops.

Just for a second.

Then she resumes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The lie is too careful.

“You took my hand,” you say. “And you moved into the light.”

She sets the spoon down and turns, her eyes already tired. “Please… not here.”

“Then where?”

She glances toward the stairs. “Tonight. On the roof.”

You should push now.

But something in her face—fear stretched thin into politeness—stops you.

“Tonight,” you agree.

All day, the house feels wrong.

Your mother moves around downstairs, complaining about her knee. Mateo comes in later, yawning, kissing your cheek, acting normal—but when he looks at Sofia, something flickers in his face. Recognition. Gone as quickly as it came.

You feel it like cold air.

For the first time, a thought forms that you immediately want to reject.

What if Sofia isn’t afraid of the dark?

What if she’s afraid of him?

You push it away.

Not Mateo.

Not your husband.

And yet the thought doesn’t leave.

That night, at 1:13 a.m., the sound comes again.

Click.

The light slices across the wall. Sofia moves immediately, placing her head in its path. A soft tap follows.

Tac.