Since the night my closet door glowed and led me into an enormous room occupied by a lonely girl, I haven’t stopped coming back whenever it allows me to.

Cami is trapped there. I’m not her savior—only her visitor. When I step through the door, I’m barely an inch tall. Too small to break locks, too small to force answers. Too small to change her situation in any obvious way.

So instead, we talk. We sit with each other in the quiet. We share stories, memories, jokes meant to soften the weight of waiting. Somehow, in trying to fill her emptiness, I ended up filling some of my own.

Tonight, the familiar glow seeps from the cracks of my closet door again.

The door opens.

I exit through the doorway of the dollhouse in her room and emerge onto the soft carpet . The light is dim, warm, familiar.

“You’re here,” Cami says, her voice soft but unmistakably brighter than moments ago. She kneels carefully, hesitating for just a second before cupping me in her hand, as gentle as always.

“Sorry,” she murmurs with a shy smile, adjusting her grip so I’m more comfortable.

As she lifts me, I can’t help but notice something—just for an instant. A thin tear in the wallpaper near the base of the wall. It might be nothing. Or it might not.

She brings me closer to her chest, settling down on the bed. “How was your day?” she asks, genuinely curious.

And just like that, the world outside fades again.