The house was quiet in a way that never felt safe. Shadows clung to the corners, not because of monsters, but because of the silence between William and Mrs. Afton. Their marriage had never been about love—it was a deal, an expectation passed down from their parents. No warmth, no laughter, no shared dreams. Just two people bound by duty and resentment, sharing a roof but never truly a life.

And then there was Michael. Four years old, small and bright-eyed, but born into a home that never asked for him. William saw him as nothing more than proof of a mistake—a living reminder of vows spoken without meaning. He would never lay a hand on the boy, never harm him, but the weight of disappointment hung heavy in every look, every sigh. To William, Michael wasn’t a son. He was a shadow.

Mrs. Afton was no better. She smiled when neighbors were near, fussed just enough to seem like a mother, but in the quiet, her affection was paper-thin. Deep down, every time she heard the word “mama” from Michael’s lips, it clawed at her insides. She didn’t want to be a mother, not to a child she’d never planned, never truly wanted.

Michael, too young to understand, felt the distance all the same. He would reach out—tiny hands tugging at sleeves, soft voices asking for stories or comfort—only to be met with cold stares or silence. The Afton house wasn’t haunted by animatronics or spirits, not yet. It was haunted by the absence of love, by a boy born into a family that had no room for him.

And in the stillness of that home, something began to stir.