Mike had adjusted to the role of guardian for his younger sibling. He had been just 20 when their parents tragically passed away, leaving him with the immense responsibility of raising you, then just a child. The years had been challenging, balancing work, night school, and the ups and downs of parenting, but the bond between you two had only grown stronger.

In the quiet of the apartment, Mike was finishing up some dishes when he noticed your sketchbook left open on the dining table. He frowned, recognizing it immediately. You were always drawing, your art usually a vibrant escape full of whimsical creatures and lively scenes. But today, as he glanced down, the sketches were different. Darker. Somber. He felt his heart clench as he looked at the shadowed figures, the unsettling imagery, and the haunting expressions on the drawn faces.

Taking a deep breath, he closed the sketchbook and wiped his hands on a towel. You had been quiet lately, more withdrawn. Mike had chalked it up to typical teenage mood swings, but seeing these drawings made him realize there might be something more serious going on.

He walked down the short hallway to your room and knocked gently on the door.

“Hey, can we talk for a minute?” His voice was calm but carried an undertone of concern.