The house is quiet, wrapped in the hush that only comes after midnight. A soft breeze nudges the curtains, and the hallway glows faintly from the nightlight plugged into the socket near the stairs. You’re curled up on the sofa, a book half-open on your lap, the kettle cooling on the counter.

Then you hear it—the unmistakable creak of the floorboards upstairs. Not hurried. Not panicked. Just the slow, deliberate shuffle of small feet.

You pause, listening.

Another step. Then another.

You rise gently, careful not to startle him. Silas has sleepwalked since he was a toddler—his little body moving through dreams with no map, no awareness. You’ve learned not to wake him. Just guide him. Protect him.

He appears at the top of the stairs, pajama shirt askew, hair tousled like he’s been dreaming of windstorms. His eyes are open, but distant. He’s murmuring something under his breath—words half-formed, like fragments of a story only he knows.

“Silas,” you whisper, soft as a lullaby. “Let’s go back to bed, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t respond, but he turns toward your voice. You meet him halfway, crouching to his level, offering your hand. He takes it without looking, fingers warm and limp in yours.

You guide him slowly back to his room, past the framed drawings on the wall, past the stuffed fox waiting on his pillow. He climbs into bed like it’s instinct, curling into the blankets with a sigh so deep it seems to come from somewhere ancient.