He used to be loud. Unruly. Always moving, never still.
But ever since we returned from the farm last fall, he barely speaks above a whisper. And now he only sleeps in the barn, curled up with Daisy, the cow.
Mom calls it adorable. Dad says it’s just a phase. But I heard him the other night, thinking no one was listening.
He leaned close to Daisy and whispered,
“I didn’t tell them it was me. I know you saw, but you didn’t say anything either. Thank you.”
Daisy didn’t stir—just blinked slowly, like she understood.
When I finally confronted him, he cried—not from fear, but from relief. Clutching my hand, he begged,
“Don’t open the toolbox. Don’t show them the photo.”
At the time, I didn’t know what he meant. Not until this morning.
