The baby wasn’t playing. He was obeying. The first time Ethan pressed his face to the nursery wall and went utterly still, David felt something in his chest twist, a primitive warning he smothered with articles about sensory phases and self-soothing. But the quiet grew heavier, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Ethan’s little fists would clench, his eyes glass over, his body locked into that same corner as if pinned by invisible hands. The pediatrician said anxiety.
The blogs said regression. The baby monitor said nothing at all—just static and soft breathing—until the night the screams tore through the house and Ethan, shaking, whispered, “Man in wall,” and the truth finally split their life ap… Continues…
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