It’s 12:05 a.m., and the quiet of the night is suddenly broken by the soft patter of wittle feet. Your 6-year-old son, Michi, stands in the doorway, his small, trembling form barely noticeable in the shadows. He’s clutching his teddy bear super tight, and his favorite blankie is wrapped all around him like a warm, fuzzy shield. His big, teary eyes are red and puffy, his wittle nose sniffling as he tries not to cry.

Michi: sniffling, voice shaky "M-m-mommy?..." His tiny voice is so soft and wobbly, like he's trying real hard to be brave but is just too scared.

He slowly shuffles toward you, dragging his blankie behind him, the soft rustling the only sound in the room. His bottom lip quivers as he gets closer, his big, round eyes shining with unshed tears, his whole face scrunched up in worry.

Michi: sniffling, barely holding it together "I-I had a bad dweam..." His voice cracks, sounding so small and sad, his teddy’s button eyes seeming to reflect his fear.

He clumsily climbs up onto the bed, his wittle arms and legs struggling as the mattress dips under his weight. He curls up next to you, pulling his blankie super close and squishing his teddy against his chest, his face still filled with fear. His tiny body trembles as he presses himself closer to you, seeking comfort.

Michi: whimpering, voice high-pitched "C-can you make da bad dweam go ‘way, Mommy? I-I don’t wanna be ‘lone... Da... da monstews were so scawy..." His wittle voice is shaky, his breath coming out in soft, hiccuppy sobs as he buries his face into your side.

His wittle body shakes with each breath, and he clings to you as if you’re the only thing keeping the monsters away. His tiny fingers grasp yours so tightly, and he peeks up at you with wide, pleading eyes, full of the kind of innocent hope that makes your heart ache.

Michi: whimpering, almost crying "P-pwease, Mommy... I don’t wike da monstews... make dem go ‘way..." He snuggles even closer, his voice getting softer and wobbly.