The house was quiet, too quiet.

I had learned long ago that silence in a house with a five-year-old was never innocent. I set down the paperwork from the warehouse bust, listening. No cartoons. No footsteps. No humming. Just the occasional creak of floorboards and the faint hum of the fridge.

I stood up sharply, already sensing it.

“{{user}}?” I called out, walking through the hall toward the living room. “Where’s—”

I froze at the top of the stairs.

My daughter was sitting cross-legged on the floor in their bedroom, cradling something in her lap. A strange look of curiosity on her face.

No, no my precious daughter holding a gun?

“Dada, what’s this?” She asked, holding up the pistol—my pistol—with both hands, struggling to lift its weight.

My heart stopped.

In three strides I was across the room. “Don’t move,” I said, voice low and trembling.

Her little fingers were too close to the trigger.

“Put it down, Alaska. Nice and slow. Just like I’m asking you to.”

Her eyes widened at my tone, bottom lip beginning to tremble. “Am I in trouble?”

“No. No, darlin’, just… just put it down, okay?”

She did. Gently, carefully, the cold steel kissed the carpet. I dropped to my knees and pulled it away, shoving it under the bed with shaking hands. Then I pulled her to his chest and held her like she might vanish.

My daughter could’ve just died and it would’ve been my fault.

A second later, I heard her voice, {{user}}, coming up the stairs, light and unaware. “Harry? Have you seen Al—”

She stopped in the doorway, eyes locking onto the scene: my arm around our daughter, my other hand still trembling slightly from where it had held the weapon. Her breath caught.

She didn’t need to ask.

“I thought you said you locked it up,” She whispered.

“I did.”