The phone call came at an hour that never carries good news, the kind of hour that feels suspended outside of ordinary life, when the world is quiet enough that even a small sound feels intrusive. It was 12:08 a.m., and for a few seconds I simply stared at the glowing screen, my mind slow to catch up with what I was seeing. Mara. My sister’s name pulsed against the darkness of the room, bright and insistent, and something in my chest tightened before I even answered.

She wasn’t the kind of person who called in the middle of the night without reason. Beside me, Caleb slept deeply, his breathing steady, one arm draped loosely across the empty space where I had been lying. The rain tapped softly against the window, a quiet, almost soothing rhythm that made the moment feel even more surreal. Everything about the scene suggested calm, safety, normalcy. And yet, the moment I picked up the phone and heard Mara’s voice, all of that dissolved. She didn’t greet me. She didn’t ask if I was awake. Her voice was low, controlled, and urgent in a way I had never heard before. She told me to turn off every light in the house, to take my phone and go to the attic, to lock the door, and—most importantly—not to tell Caleb.

PART 2