The airport had been loud that morning. Rolling suitcases. Boarding announcements. The low hum of departures.

He had crouched in front of his six-year-old son and zipped his jacket all the way to his chin.

“Dad, are you coming back soon?”

“In three days,” he said with a reassuring smile. “You’re the man of the house while I’m gone. Take care of Mom.”

The boy nodded seriously. “I will. I’m big already.”

He believed him.

The first two days of the trip were uneventful. Evening video calls. Laughter about cartoons. Grandma’s pies. His wife’s steady voice saying everything was fine, don’t worry, focus on work.

On the third night, he returned late to his hotel room, tie loosened, shoulders aching. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his phone.

Before he could text his wife, a message popped up from his son.

“Dad, Mom is screaming behind the door. Is she in pain? What should I do?”

His heart slammed into his ribs.

He called immediately.

The phone rang too long.

Finally, a whisper: “Dad?”

“Where are you?” he asked, forcing calm into his voice. “Are you alone?”

“I’m in the hallway… by Mom’s door,” the boy whispered. “I woke up and she was
Is the door open?”

“It’s locked.”

Through the phone, another scream tore through the quiet. Not startled. Not playful.

Raw.

He stood up so fast the chair toppled behind him.

“Did you see anyone else in the apartment?” he asked carefully. “Did you hear another voice?”

“I don’t know… I think I hear someone. It’s muffled.”

“Okay. Listen to me very carefully,” he said. “Hold the phone up to the door—but stay close to the wall. Not in front of it. And don’t say anything.”

“I’m scared.”