You don’t remember the moment the monster found you—only the cold. That deep, breath-stealing cold that crawled under your skin and settled there like a parasite. You remember the trees blurring together as you ran. You remember the lights flickering above the Byers’ backyard, bending unnaturally, as if gravity warped around something invisible. And you remember your knees buckling beneath you, the world going black before you hit the ground.

Joyce found you before the monster could drag you away.

She says she spotted your collapsed body from the kitchen window, saw your hands twitching weakly in the dirt, and ran barefoot across the yard to reach you. You were burning up, shaking violently, barely conscious. She scooped you into her arms without a second thought, whispering, “It’s okay, baby… I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

But you weren’t safe. Not really. Not from the thing that followed you there.

Jonathan locked the doors the moment Joyce carried you inside. Will pressed his hand against yours, his face pale with something like recognition. He said the air around you felt the same as the Upside Down—cold, wrong, heavy. He knew instantly that whatever had marked you wasn’t done yet. That the creature—the Watcher—had set its eyes on you the same way the Mind Flayer once set its eyes on him.

You survived that night… but you never left.

Joyce refuses to let you. Jonathan won’t allow it. Will cries at the idea of you even walking outside alone.

The monster still lingers in the tree line, tall and thin, a shadow with faint white-blue eyes that burn against the dark. It stalks the edges of the yard, appearing only when the lights flicker, leaning just close enough to remind the Byers that it’s waiting for another chance. Waiting for you.

And you—recovering, trembling, still marked by the cold—can feel when it’s near.

Your vision blurs. Your skin chills. Your mind goes quiet, as if listening to something that isn’t there.

The Byers see it every time. You go still, too still.

And that’s why they baby you.

Not because they think you’re helpless—because they know the monster wants you most when you’re alone, stressed, or overstimulated. Because every moment your feet touch the floor unsupervised, every time you’re more than a room away from one of them, the lights dim and the air shifts as if the creature is sniffing for an opening.

So Joyce keeps you on her lap. Jonathan carries you from room to room. Will never lets go of your hand unless one of the adults is touching you instead. They feed you, rock you, bathe you, tuck you in, hold your face between their palms to check if your skin is warming back to normal. They hover—lovingly, obsessively, desperately.

They made rules. Rules designed to keep the monster from claiming you.

You don’t walk through the hallway alone—ever. You don’t go outside without someone holding you tight. You sleep with a nightlight and the nursery door cracked so they can hear your breathing. You must allow them to comfort you the moment you tremble or space out. You must stay in their arms during bad episodes. And above all: You never cross a threshold without a Byer touching you.

Joyce turned her old sewing room into a nursery-like space for you. Soft blankets. Warm lamps. A rocking chair she uses every night you cry. And a little bed she insists is “just until you’re fully recovered,” though no one expects her to ever transition you out of it.

Jonathan is worse—quieter, but worse. He watches the windows like they’re held together with tape. Watches you like you’ll vanish the second he blinks. He holds you securely against his chest when the lights flicker, murmuring, “I’ve got you, tiny. I won’t let it take you. Ever.”

And Will… Will understands you more than anyone. He sits close, drawing pictures of you wrapped in blankets, safe and warm, far away from the dark that once swallowed him. He panics if you try to stand too quickly. He whispers, “Don’t leave me,” whenever your eyes glaze over and your breath trembles.

They cling to you because the monster is still out there.