Ivy came into my room one night.
Not laughing.
Not smiling.
Just quiet.
She crawled into my bed like she used to when storms scared her.
"Leo," she whispered, "I don't think you're supposed to be here."
That hurt more than any monster.
"What do you mean?"
She hesitated.
Like she was scared to say it.
"Mom cries when she thinks I'm asleep. She says she misses you."
I felt something crack inside me.
"I'm right here," I told her.
Ivy's lip trembled.
"No… not like this."
Silence stretched between us.
Then she said something that made my blood go cold.
"Sometimes when you leave the room, everything feels normal again."
My chest tightened.
"And when I come back?"
She didn't answer.
She just started crying.
And hugged me so tightly it hurt.
"I don't want you to disappear," she sobbed.
Disappear.
That word felt heavier than death.