And then I remembered Mama’s last week.
How she tried to tell me something when she could barely breathe.
How she grabbed my hand and pointed downward—to the floor, to the house itself—as if the house were the enemy.
And I remembered her final clear words, barely whispered:
—Never drink anything… you didn’t see being prepared.
That night, I finally understood.It wasn’t paranoia.
It was a warning.
I stood up barefoot.
I grabbed my phone.
Put it on silent.
Turned on the flashlight at its lowest brightness.
Then I walked toward the wardrobe.
The wall looked perfect. Smooth.
But now I knew where to search.
I slowly ran my fingers along the paint until I felt a tiny seam—almost like a crack.
I pressed where Daniel had pressed.
Nothing.
