At exactly 2:17 a.m., the emergency line at 112 rang through the quiet control room. The operator, weary from the monotony of late-night calls, almost dismissed it as another prank, the kind of idle mischief that often filled the night shift. But the faint, trembling voice on the other end made her freeze, every instinct screaming that this was no ordinary disturbance. “Ma’am… my mom and dad won’t wake up… and the house smells weird…” The words barely carried through the receiver, yet they carried enough urgency to put the operator immediately on high alert. She had heard panic before, but there was something distinctly fragile, profoundly human in the tone of this seven-year-old girl named Sofia.

“Sweetheart, can you tell me your name?” the operator asked softly, striving to calm the trembling voice. “Sofia… I’m seven…” came the reply. Each word seemed measured, as though Sofia were trying to comprehend a reality far too terrifying for someone her age. Instructions were delivered calmly: step outside, wait in the garden, stay away from the house. Officers were dispatched without delay, as the operator stayed on the line, holding the line with the child and trying to keep panic from overtaking her voice.