“Protecting him from what, sweetheart?” she asked, searching his eyes for some clue, some hint of the imagined danger that had driven her son to this daily ritual.

The boy hesitated, looking down at his little brother who was blissfully unaware of the conversation happening around him. Finally, he spoke again, his eyes filled with a seriousness that seemed far beyond his years.

“From the shadows,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “They come at night. I see them, Mom. They try to touch him.”

A chill ran down the mother’s spine. Shadows? She tried to remain calm, not wanting to alarm her son even further. She knew children had vivid imaginations, but this seemed different. His words carried a weight that suggested he truly believed what he was saying.

“Sweetie, shadows can’t hurt your brother,” she said gently, rubbing his back. “They’re just tricks of the light.”