My little brother used to be wild and loud—until we came back from the farm last fall. Now he only whispers and sleeps in the barn, curled up beside Daisy the cow.
One night, I overheard him thank Daisy for not telling anyone “it was me.” When I pressed him, he warned, “Don’t open the toolbox. Don’t show them the photo.”
The next day, Dad pulled a dusty toolbox from his truck. Inside was a single old photo of a barn—still standing, though it had burned down years ago. In the corner stood a tall, unnatural shadow.
When I confronted Tim again, he broke. He admitted he’d opened the toolbox on the farm, letting “it” out. The fire hadn’t been an accident. The shadow was real.
Later, I opened the box myself. Inside were scraps of cloth, a faded photograph, and an ancient symbol carved into the wood. I didn’t understand it, but I knew the farm was wrong—stuck in something dark.
We never spoke of it again, but Daisy still watches over Tim at night. And I’ve learned some truths are too heavy to carry out loud. Sometimes, silence is the only protection you have.
