“What is it?”
He looked up at me, and the fear in his eyes hit me instantly.
“Mama… we can’t go home.”
I knelt in front of him, trying to stay calm. “What do you mean? It’s late—we’re just going home.”
He shook his head, tears already forming. “No. Please. Something bad is going to happen.”
People nearby glanced at us. I pulled him closer.
“You’re safe,” I said gently. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
“Mama, please,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “This time, you have to believe me.”
This time.
The words stung.
A few weeks earlier, he’d mentioned a strange car outside our house late at night. I hadn’t taken it seriously. Another time, he said he heard his dad talking about “fixing things.” I brushed it off as imagination.
Now he was shaking in front of me.
Begging.
I took a slow breath. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Tell me what you heard.”
He leaned in close.
“This morning,” he whispered, “I woke up early. Daddy was on the phone. He said something bad would happen tonight while we were sleeping. He said he needed to be far away… so we wouldn’t be in the way.”
Everything inside me went cold.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
He nodded quickly. “He said someone else would handle it. His voice sounded different.”
My mind tried to reject it. To explain it away.
But pieces started falling into place.
Everything in his name. The increased insurance. Late-night calls. That strange sentence I once overheard: it has to look like an accident.
I stood up slowly.
“Okay,” I said. “I believe you.”
Relief washed over his face instantly.
We walked to the car without speaking. I buckled him in, my hands unsteady, then drove—but not the usual way home. I took a longer route, circling around, approaching from a distance.
I parked down the street, turning off the engine and headlights.
Our house looked normal. Lights on. Quiet.
We waited.
Then, a dark van appeared.
It moved slowly. Too slowly.
It stopped in front of our house.
Two men got out.
They didn’t look like neighbors.
One reached into his pocket.
Not for tools.
For a key.
He unlocked our front door and they went inside.
Kenzo gripped my arm. “How do they have a key?”
I couldn’t answer.
Then I smelled it.
Gasoline.
A thin stream of smoke appeared near the window.
My heart stopped.
Flames erupted inside, spreading fast, consuming everything.
For a second, I moved forward instinctively—then froze.
If we had gone home…
Sirens echoed in the distance as the van sped away.
Kenzo held onto me as I sank down, staring at the fire swallowing the life we knew.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Quasi.
“Just landed. Hope you and Kenzo are sleeping well. Love you.”
I looked at the screen… then at the burning house.
And in that moment, the truth became impossible to ignore.
If I hadn’t listened to my son, we would have been inside.
Asleep.
And something told me this wasn’t the end.
