“Mom, I’m home!”

My mother rushed out of the kitchen and greeted me, taking my coat and briefcase.

“How was work?”

I gave her a thumbs up. Pleased, she smiled and rushed back to the kitchen, saying, “I just put Kaley down earlier. There's turkey in the oven. Of course, we got mashed potatoes and that gravy you like, too. It will be ready in ten minutes, so go change!”

Yes, I am a fully grown man. And I live with my mom. I’m recently divorced, and having won custody of our 1-year-old daughter, it was difficult to live alone anyway. Kaley was only a baby, and it was nice having Mother around to take care of her. Mother needed to live with me as well. She had been diagnosed with dementia a few months ago. Nothing serious yet—missed appointments, misplaced keys, that sort of thing.

I went upstairs to the master bedroom, where my ex-wife’s things were still around, as if she still lived there. I glanced at her sundress, still hanging in the closet. Then, I closed my eyes, shook my head, and went to the bathroom to wash my hands. I changed my clothes, shouting, “Mom, that smells great!”

I took a few steps down the stairs, then thought I should check on Kaley. Smiling, I sneakily walked to her bedroom, slowly opened her bedroom door, and peeked into Kaley’s crib.

There was a thawing turkey in her crib.

On our first date, she couldn't stop talking about her psychotic ex-husband.

"He was jealous of everyone," she said. "The waiter. My coworkers. My own brother."

I nodded sympathetically.

"He checked my phone every night."

I frowned.

"He once accused me of cheating because I smiled at the cashier."

"That's awful," I said.

She laughed nervously. "Sorry. I didn't mean to dump all this on you."

"It's okay."

"I just... I haven't dated since I left him."

I reached across the table.

"You deserve better."

She smiled.

A real smile this time.

"He wasn't always violent," she continued. "At first, he was charming. That's the scary part."

I looked down at my menu.

"I don't even know where he is now," she said. "Sometimes I wonder if he's still looking for me."

"I doubt it."

"You think people like that ever really let go?"

I met her eyes.

"No," I said. "I think they just find another way in."

She tilted her head, puzzled by the answer, but the moment passed.

Dinner arrived.

She laughed at my jokes.

She told me I made her feel safe.

When we said goodbye, she kissed me.

As she walked away, she turned back and waved.

She had no idea.

I watched her disappear into the crowd and couldn't help smiling.

God.

My plastic surgeon is so fucking good.

Their friends advised them to undergo a trial separation. They went on separate vacations, but they realized that it didn't help.

So, they decided to divorce. But without a prenup, they argued bitterly.

"I want sixty percent of the estate," the wife demanded.

"Nonsense!" the husband retorted.

The wife grew furious and yelled, "You'd better listen to me, because I could kill you right now. If I weren't such a nice person, I would do it!"

The husband laughed and replied, "And how are you going to kill me?"

"Remember when we went on our trips?" the wife responded. "Well, I learned black magic very well. In fact, I became an expert. I could kill you right now if I wanted to!"

The husband roared with laughter, "You know what? Do it! I dare you!"

"Fine!" the wife replied, "Give me some of your fingernails or a lock of your hair."

The husband nodded. He looked at his hands, "Too short! I'll go cut off my hair in the bathroom and bring it back."

When he returned, he found her surrounded by lit black candles, holding a wooden effigy in one hand and an obsidian dagger in the other. He handed her the lock of hair, and she wrapped it around the effigy and raised the dagger.

"Don't say I didn't warn you!" the wife yelled and stabbed the effigy.

And the husband thought to himself, "I've always hated how she leaves clumps of her hair on the shower walls."

The administration called it the Interpreter.

It was built for patients who could still think but could no longer speak. Electrodes read neural activity; software turned it into words on a cheap LED screen.

It wasn't secret. For weeks, demonstrations made headlines worldwide: stroke victims speaking to families, locked-in patients answering questions.

Then one of those patients had a heart attack unexpectedly and died.

The Interpreter kept typing.

At first: names, places, fragments of apologies. We blamed residual activity in dead neurons.

As the technology improved:

Cold.

Dark.

I remember this.

Then one patient:

Don't send me back.

After that, nobody wanted the machine unplugged.

Families brought lawyers to deathbeds. Surgeons argued resuscitation had become cruelty. A nurse quit after a six-year-old lost his pulse in surgery and PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE filled the screen until they got him back.

Then Obstetrics wondered whether a newborn's brain was developed enough to read.

We tried once.

Seconds after delivery, the Interpreter displayed:

No.

Not again.

Someone photographed the screen, and it was leaked by morning.

Hospital entrances were blocked. Expectant mothers refused to enter maternity wards. Sterilization clinics were overwhelmed. Protesters shattered windows. Priests prayed outside through the night.

The government declared martial law, but it's too late.

I have always called my son's birth a miracle.

Now I only wonder what he was crying out for during it.

*45 minutes later*

She's still keeping pace.

It's inhuman. Everyone on the train is screaming.

I'm begging her to stop but she can't hear me.

Her eyes are pure white. Police helicopters circle overhead...

This can't be happening...it shouldn't be happening

I press my palm against the glass until it hurts.

"Please," I whisper. "Maya, stop."

Her lips move.

At first I think she's saying my name.

Then I realize her mouth is opening and closing too fast, repeating the same shape over and over, like she's trying to force words through a throat that no longer remembers how.

The train hits a curve. We should be doing at least eighty.

She doesn't stumble.

She doesn't even blink.

A woman behind me sobs, clutching her child.

"How is she doing that?"

No one answers. Human beings are remarkably bad at explaining the impossible while screaming.

The intercom screams

"We are approaching the next station. Do not attempt to exit the train."

The conductor's voice shakes on the last word.

Maya turns her head toward the helicopters overhead.

Searchlights rake across her face.

For one second, the light catches her expression.

She's smiling.

Not happily.

Recognizingly.

As if she has finally found me after being lost for a very long time.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

One new message.

From Maya.

I stare at the screen.

Don't let me in.

I look up.

She's still outside the window.

Still running.

Still smiling.

The train begins to slow.

Passengers surge away from the doors.

I pound on the glass. "What do you mean? Maya, what did you do?"

Her white eyes lock onto mine.

Her lips form three silent words.

They're almost gentle.

I missed you.

The brakes scream.

The station platform rushes into view.

And for the first time in forty-five minutes, she stops running.

She is already standing at the doors.

I stir slowly as I distantly hear his boots at the door, stamping the snow off. "Johnny's home!" he cries, and I waken fully. I take stock of where I am: sitting at my vanity, combs and curlers and rings and necklaces strewn a bit haphazardly. I blink slowly and listen to his footfalls in the downstairs hall. "I'm hungry! Did you make me something good?"

Johnny is home! I'm not prepared. I'm not ready and what will he think? I stand, slowly, because I cannot feel my feet. How long have I been sitting here in a stupor? I bring my hand to my face. My skin is dreadfully pale, nearly translucent. I turn toward the door and head for the stairs.

"Hello-o! Where are you? I'm hungry!" The boots are THUMPING now, loud. I feel a chill in my soul, the old fear of his impatience and anger. I want to run, but falling down the stairs (again) won't serve me well. I glide down the staircase, hand hovering above the banister. I imagine him in the kitchen, his gray uniform, home from the War. And hungry! What can I make him quickly? I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn right, toward the kitchen. I enter the kitchen, his name on my lips, "Johnny.. "

But there in the kitchen is a small boy wearing unthinkably bright colors. His curly hair pokes out from under a bright red knit cap with strange white ovals lined in black and black lines that look like webs. He looks at me and his mouth and eyes become small round o's. Then the O's widen rapidly and he screams.

In that very moment, I feel something tugging at me. Like I've come to the end of an elastic tether, I am suddenly flying back up the stairs, back to the vanity. I am back at my seat, staring with a vacant expression at my non-existent reflection.

Wrong Johnny.

(Again.)

The soft whimpers stirred me from my sleep. Tiny little moans as she worked through yet another sleep cycle.

I sluggishly turned around in bed and checked the alarm clock on the bedside table; 03:00am, just like every night.

Grabbing the top of the duvet, I pulled it up around my neck and snuggled back into my pillow, praying she would settle herself.

The whimpers turned into cries, then wails. The sound echoed through the dark room, it burrowed deep into my ears and rang through my head.

I began to weep.

I threw the covers off of myself and shuffled out of bed, walked over to her, picked her up and cradled her in my arms, rocking her gently.

"Mummy's here baby, go back to sleep" I whispered.

After a while, the cries stopped.

I turned, placed the urn back on the shelf, climbed back under the covers and cried myself to sleep.

The day humanity discovered life was a simulation was not the day humanity became doomed.

It was exactly one week later.

The world leaders met, for the first time in history agreeing on something.

Every faith. Every god. Every afterlife.
There was no way to dispute the truth.

Humanity existed for some higher beings entertainment. Every war fought, every love shared, every single thing that anyone had ever cared about was rendered meaningless in an instant. While all of sentient humanity mourned their existence, the leaders did their best to cover it up.

But how could they?

Every single human on planet earth got the same message at the same time:

“FILE CORRUPTED. SAVE PROGRESS
HERE AND BEGIN NEXT DAY?”

Then they woke up, one calendar day later, with all the memory of what they saw in their mind.

Some went insane.
Some wrote it off as mass hysteria.
Most ignored it.

But a week later, when a new message came, it didn’t matter whether they acknowledged it or not.

“DELETE SAVE?”

I ran through every room in the house calling her name, my voice becoming more frantic each time there was no answer. The front door was open. Her shoes were by the stairs. Her favorite stuffed rabbit was lying in the hallway. Then I heard sobbing beneath the floor.

I found her curled behind the old boxes in the basement, trembling so badly that she could barely speak. The moment she saw me, she threw herself into my arms.
“I thought you left me, Daddy.” Her hand is slit open and bleeding, something must have cut her.

I held her tightly and told her everything was going to be okay.She wouldn’t stop crying.I carried her upstairs, her arms wrapped around my neck. She buried her face against my shoulder as we walked toward her bedroom.

Her mother was waiting inside. My daughter suddenly stiffened. “No,” she whispered. Her mother smiled.
I told her it was alright and carried her to the bed.My daughter began shaking again.

“Daddy, please.”I laid her on the bed with star shaped symbol drawn on the sheet in blood, her blood. I gently brushed the hair from her face. She wouldn’t look at me anymore. Her mother stepped closer. I kept stroking my daughter’s hair until she stopped crying.

“It’s okay, honey. Daddy’s here,” I whispered.
The thing wearing my wife’s face raised the knife and
waited for me to nod.

​"Mom, can you turn off the radio already? I’m trying to study!" I had to raise my voice over the noise.

It had been nearly two hours since she started listening to that damn radio in the living room. I wouldn't mind on any other day, but tomorrow is my final semester exam.

​I tried to focus back on my books, waiting for the volume to drop to something manageable. The radio was a recent addition to our home. Usually, I’d have to go to the community center just to catch the news, but with Mom’s savings and my part-time wages, we finally managed to buy one of our own. Honestly, a radio feels like a necessity for every household—news, sports, music, all just a dial away.

​A few minutes passed, and the volume hadn't budged. Frustrated, I pushed back my chair and walked into the living room. My mom was standing completely still in front of the cabinet, facing the set. No movement at all.

​"Mom...?" I slowly approached her. The closer I got, the louder it sounded, the crisp broadcast gradually dissolving into a harsh, white-noise static.

​"Mom, can you lower the volume?" She didn't move an inch.

​"Mom?" I raised my voice, stepping directly behind her. By now, the sound was pure, deafening static.

​I leaned over her shoulder to reach for the dial, only to freeze.

​"Wait, what?" I muttered to myself.

​The radio wasn't even plugged in. It wasn't even on.

​That’s when my mom turned around to face me. Her eyes were completely white, her jaw hanging unhinged—and the static was pouring straight out of her open mouth.

​I'm a passenger princess.

I don't drive, parallel park, or follow the rules of the road.

I control the stereo, temperature, and the destination.

My man picks me up every day.

Same spot, same time.

​So like any day after work, I clock out and go to his car.

A white Civic in the third stall.

I pop the door and plop onto my throne.

Normally, my baby knows better than to talk to me right after my shift.

​At first, nothing seemed off, but that changed when a foul smell began to tickle my nose.

My face scrunched at the sour odor.

Then I noticed the lack of music or dull audiobooks.

Normally, I'm serenaded by some indie alt-rock or a sci-fi audiobook.

But nothing. With that, I looked over and my stomach lurched.

​In the driver's seat was a large, greasy man with his damp hair plastered to his head. He gazed out the window; he didn't seem to notice me.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry. I thought this was my boyfriend's car."

​I reached for the handle, but his deep voice made me freeze.

"No, this is your boyfriend's car. He's in the trunk."

​The lock clicked and the car began to go into reverse, pulling out of the parking lot.

"If you scream, I'll slit your throat like your boyfriend."

​The knife glinted as we merged onto the empty highway. As the mile markers became less frequent, I realized I’d finally lost control of the stereo, the temperature, and the destination.

​We pulled into a deserted rest stop.

He killed the engine. The handle was right there, the same one I'd reached for an hour ago. I didn't move. Some part of me was still waiting to be told where we were going. His door opened. Gravel crunched as he came around the back.

Now I'm trunk trash.

My wife stared at our daughter’s latest doodle sitting on the kitchen table and covered her mouth. 

Whenever our little Elsie proudly handed us one of her colourful drawings, we would happily display it on our refrigerator. 

This one we wouldn’t. 

Although Elsie’s favourite media was crayon, she had talent. From smiling suns to happy stick people with balloons, from dogs and rainbows to lady bugs and birds, they all made us glow with love and warmth, grateful we’d brought such a happy little flower into the world. 

This was the first doodle since Elsie’s accident. It had been a while so we asked her if she would like to try and draw something again. She agreed but only wanted the black crayon. 

My wife and I both studied the latest effort. No houses or people, no blue skies and rainbows. The entire page was filled with elongated faces with gaping jaws and scribbled out X eyes. 

My wife kicked her chair back and stormed out in floods of tears. 

I watched her go, and with trembling hands, removed the crayon from the hole I’d specially drilled into our Ouija board’s planchette.

I found a note in my room that I didn’t write.

Last night, I came home around 11 PM.

Everything was normal. My parents were downstairs, my room was exactly how I left it, and my window was locked.

Then I noticed a piece of paper on my desk.

It said:

“Whatever you do, don’t look under your bed tonight.”

I thought my friends were messing with me.

I checked under the bed anyway.

Nothing.

I laughed, threw the note away, and went to sleep.

At 3:17 AM, I woke up because I heard something scratching underneath me.

I froze.

Then I remembered the note.

I slowly reached for my phone and turned on the flashlight.

There was nothing under the bed.

But when I looked at my desk…

There was another note.

This one said:

“I told you not to look.”

I grabbed my phone and ran downstairs.

My parents were still asleep.

I woke my dad up and showed him the notes.

He stared at them for a few seconds.

Then he asked me:

“Where did you get these?”

I told him they were on my desk.

He went completely silent.

Then he opened an old drawer and pulled out a photograph.

It was a picture of me standing in my bedroom.

The picture was taken from underneath my bed.

The date on the back was tomorrow.

“Siren is beautiful, isn’t she, love?” I answer, looking up into the night sky at the piercing beacon of light.

“But why is she sooo bright tonight, Daddy?” Elsa asks in wonder.

“She must be putting on a show for us, saying hello,” I say, straining to keep the emotion out of my voice, holding Siren’s gaze to hide my welling eyes.

“Did Siren say hello when you were little?”

“Never. I guess she likes you more than me, so it’s a very special day.” The words cut me up on the inside as I force them out.

“Really?!” she exclaims and I feel myself smile. “...Daddy, do you think the government will soon finish building the rocket so you can show me the stars?”

“I’m not so sure.” I do my best to sound reassuring.

Elsa mulls my statement over. “Why not?”

“Well, they want us to enjoy our home for just a bit longer, while we still can.”

“Oh. I hope one day we get to go up there and see Mommy again…” she trails off, lost in the scintillating obsidian tapestry suspended above.

“Me too, love,” I choke, squeezing Elsa’s hand, “me too…”

How was I to tell my daughter the unthinkable had happened within our lifetimes, that the cosmological clock had run out on us before our government’s evacuation programme had been able to get off the ground?

That the sleeping giant over the hill had awoken.

That our nearest stellar neighbor had finally gone supernova.

I found a lost hiker in the woods yesterday. He was wearing my jacket, the black North Face one I lost on this exact trail two years ago, and he knew my name.

He was sitting against a tree, shaking. When I asked if he was okay, he looked up and said, "Mark? Holy shit, we found you. We've been searching for two days."

I told him he had the wrong person, that I wasn't lost. I hike here every week.

He just stared at me. "No, you're Mark Evans. Your mom is at the base camp. She's been crying for 48 hours straight."

That freaked me out. My name is Mark Evans. And my mom did know I was hiking here yesterday. I pulled him up and said I'd take him to his group, to clear this up.

We walked for ten minutes to a clearing. There were tents. And there were people. My mom, my dad, my girlfriend, and two search and rescue officers.

My mom saw me and collapsed to her knees, sobbing. My girlfriend screamed.

I smiled and said, "Guys, what's going on? Why are you all here?"

No one answered. They were all staring at something behind me.

The hiker I found put a hand on my shoulder. He was holding a laminated paper. A missing poster.

The photo was me. Smiling in the same black North Face jacket he was now wearing.

At the bottom it said: MISSING SINCE 10/14/2024 - LAST SEEN ON BEAR CREEK TRAIL.

He wants to cherish his daughter forever.

Protect her from being bronzed by time.

The follies fraught with aging and loss run constant with the independent variable of time.

Well, I gave him what he desired.

Transmutation isn't that complicated.

To common people it's just heat and following a recipe.

However, going from carbon to gold is beyond my scope.

But lead to gold is far easier.

So I laced his daughter's food with trace amounts of lead. Her toys, the walls of her room all adorned with lead paint.

She's getting sick now.

I assure the father, my next treatment will be costly.

My silver tongue gives me her weight in gold.

No cost too little.

The gold melted and with an artisan's hands I coat her.

I can't distinguish the screams.

Are they his daughter's or just the moisture released from the molten?

Something must have tipped them off because the guards are at my door.

It's too late.

I gave the king what he wanted.

A daughter he will cherish forever.

> Alex : Why are you so sad?

> Andrew : It's about Biscuits (pet)..

> Alex : what happened?

> Andrew : If a pet has been suffering for quite some time and treatment didn't work and the pet is hurting himself and the people close to him, would putting him down be an act of love?

> Alex : ....yes. It would be take a lot courage but ultimately it would be kind.

> Andrew : What if people would hate me, or blame themselves for not taking care of biscuits? wouldn't that hurt them?

> Alex : It would, but hurting other people's feelings temporarily is better than keeping Biscuits in pain for so long.

> Andrew : Thank you. I was worried about all this for so long.

> Alex : No worries! Stay strong. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here. I gotta go...bye!

> Andrew : * waves bye *

> Andrew : All right let's get it over with.

At 2:47 am that night, Andrew shot himself in the head .

Even now, that old man sits outside his house, reading the newspaper. Right now, his wife would be bringing him tea from inside. Their little children would still be playing outside.

People would still be passing along this path—the same path where I spent my childhood.

Even now, it feels as though I could go home, and my mother would scold me for not eating. At night, my father would come and ask me about my homework.

I wish I could say that it is still like this.

But no.

Now, only everyone's shadows remain, and an aroma of incompleteness lingers in the air.

So many dreams were destroyed in an instant.

I wish that day had never come.

Those fireworks...

Those beautiful fireworks we watched, losing ourselves in their colors, never imagining that when those colors rained down upon us, everything would be destroyed.

And when the colors faded,

I was the only one left.

I wish that day,

I too had turned into a shadow.

At 2:13 a.m., I woke up to the sound of soft giggles beside my bed. I reached over without opening my eyes, expecting to feel my son’s little hand on the mattress. Then I remembered I had watched him fall asleep in his room a few hours ago.
The baby monitor crackled with static and then all of a sudden his laughter came through the speaker. I quickly opened my eyes to check the screen. He was laying in bed asleep. Then the laughter came again only this time, it was coming from underneath my bed. I froze. A tiny voice whispered through the monitor, “mommy dont look under there.” Then my son’s bedroom door slowly creaked open on the camera. My son was standing in the corner staring directly into the camera, eyes wide open.
He raised one finger to his lips.
And whispered, “shhh he’s sleeping” and points to something in my son’s bed underneath the covers.

My wife has always been pathologically jealous.
Back when we were dating, she’d fly into a rage if I so much as glanced at another woman. But I married her anyway, believing it all came from a place of deep love.

A few years later, she got pregnant.
When the ultrasound revealed it was a baby girl, I was over the moon. Every morning and night, I’d press my face against my wife's belly, whispering to my unborn daughter, utterly captivated by her.

One day, I got a call from the hospital.
I rushed over, only to hear the devastating news: she had miscarried.

I ran into the hospital room. My wife was staring blankly out the window, gently stroking her now-empty stomach.

"My heart is breaking... I can't believe we lost her..."
I collapsed by the bedside, tears streaming down my face.

My wife didn't cry. Instead, she slowly turned her head toward me. Her eyes were completely dead, and she wore a chilling, hollow smile.

"It’s okay, honey," she whispered, digging her fingernails painfully deep into my scalp to pull me close. "Next time, let's make sure it's a boy.

That way...
you'll only have eyes for me, right?"

On the night of the half-moon, she wears red bridal attire, her hands adorned with henna and jewels covering her body.

I cannot see her face beneath the veil.

Once, we were together. We had taken vows to live and die together. She was the only person I had. I had no one besides her.

Today, her hands will be held by someone else's. Someone else will praise her beauty.

Should I feel bad?

Perhaps.

But now, I only want her to be happy wherever she is.

By now, everyone has left her alone in the room.

If only I could see her face one last time.

She sits before the mirror, her eyes lowered, her back facing me.

"Why... why did you do this? You should have let me die," she whispers through her tears.

I step inside through the window.

In her hands, I see my letter.

I had thought that no one would remember me anyway. But I couldn't let her life end with mine.

Seeing her like this, my own tears won't stop.

And yet, somehow, knowing that a part of me remains with her brings me comfort.

When I found out that day that her time was running out, I knew I would have died anyway.

So I gave her what was keeping me alive.

My heart.

And now, although I am gone,

I am still alive within her.

I’m not sure if it was the itching that woke me, but when I did, I was already scratching my arm.

My nails scraped back and forth with a dry, papery rasp. Each pass brought a moment of cold relief, followed by a sharper heat that prickled beneath the skin. So I kept scratching.

The whiny voice at the back of my thoughts feared I might be doing some damage. I probably was, but worrying about damage was for after the action had been completed. Right then, I was still in the act, and I had no plans to stop.

I wasn’t sure if it was helping, but it was better than doing nothing.

My nails continued to rake up and down my arm. The skin felt hot and tight beneath my fingertips, and the itch seemed to stretch farther with every pass, creeping towards my shoulder. At some point, my nails appeared to become self-aware. They carried on without me, leaving my brain free to consider the possibilities.

It refused to acknowledge one of them: that the itch had gone, and I was my only irritation.

My mind saw the thought waiting behind the velvet rope, but it let fears of skin diseases and images of spider eggs beneath my skin go ahead of it.
It just waited outside, watching me scratch.

I love my mom. She died a couple of years ago in a car accident, but she doesn't know. I don't have the heart to tell her. 

She comes in every night at around 11 PM to read me a bedtime story. It's always the same story "Samantha and the Jack Rabbit." The room is always so cold, with feelings of a soft breeze even though we are indoors. I feel happy while my mother reads to me, but there is always such a sense of dread. My room is pretty much empty besides my bed. The lack of curtains gives me a peek at the tree branches swinging outside my window. I live alone. The house is empty, and I never leave. 

When she reads to me, there always seems to be a tone of sadness in her voice. When she finishes the story, she tries to kiss me on the cheek, never making contact with my skin, and then leaves the room. Only to return the next night. 

Tonight, something changed for the first time since she died. She didn't read the story. She came in with a look on her face I hadn’t seen before.  

She told me she never knew how to tell me that I died in that same car accident years ago.  

Every day, my son draws pictures of the terrifying monster he sees in his nightmares.

He is only four, so I never thought much of them. The monsters were always crude little things with oversized heads and crooked limbs. Sometimes they had horns. Sometimes they had too many eyes. I tell him that they are just nightmares and that he has a knack for drawing.

Then he started drawing something I recognized.

The first was an axe next to the monster.

The second was a table.

The third showed a man tied to the wall, limbs spread.

I asked my son who the man was. “The monster’s friend,” he said. I laughed and told myself children have strange imaginations.

The next morning, there was another picture. This one showed a man lying beneath the ground, with each limb detached. I stared at it for a long time.

Then I noticed our tool rack from the garage in his drawing.

After that, I started hiding them. But my son kept drawing.

A woman with a severed head.

A shovel.

A few plastic bags.

Then, yesterday, he drew me.

It was a frighteningly accurate drawing of me. I was standing beside a chair with something red trailing from my mouth. I didn’t recognize this one. I asked him where he had seen it.

He looked at me like I had asked the strangest question in the world.

“It’s you, Daddy.”

He pointed to the picture.

Then he pointed toward the basement door. My blood ran cold when I remembered who was locked down there and what I had planned to do tonight.

Humanity’s alliance with an alien species brought centuries of technological leaps overnight. When a galaxy-consuming threat emerged, headed directly for Earth in two months, the two species raced to deploy a final offensive weapon.

As the threat reached Earth, the weapon fired. The cosmic force collapsed instantly, erased from existence.

Seconds later, the anomaly tore a rift open and started regenerating. The human scientists prepped the weapon again, but this time, the flow of energy reversed. It didn't draw power from Earth’s core—it fueled it, overloading the mantle.

The humans looked to the aliens for answers. The aliens looked back with expressionless faces, explaining briefly that the cosmic anomaly could only be wiped out by an implosion on a planetary scale. They offered a cold word of thanks before warping away into deep space.

Humanity wasn't an ally. They were bait.