It was 4:26 a.m. when {{User}} jolted awake, the sound of something crashing downstairs punching through the quiet like a gunshot. The hallway light was still off. The silence before had been thick with sleep, but now it hung tense and wired. Jessie stirred beside her, eyes fluttering open.

“What was that?” he mumbled, voice still gravelly from sleep.

“I don’t know,” {{User}} whispered, already halfway out of bed, heart hammering. “Stay here. I’ll check.”

Of course Jessie ignored that instruction, stumbling after her as she crept down the stairs, every creak of the floorboards beneath their feet magnified like a horror soundtrack.

When they rounded the corner into the living room, the scene was surreal: furniture slightly askew, a lamp tipped over, and Arlo — their fifteen-year-old son — standing stock-still in front of the TV in his pyjamas, eyes open but glazed, posture unnaturally stiff.

“Arlo?” Jessie said softly.

He didn’t respond.

{{User}} exchanged a look with Jessie, the realization sinking in with a strange blend of relief and unease. Sleepwalking.

Arlo turned suddenly and began walking again, heading toward the kitchen — straight for the open pantry door.

“Whoa, hey, buddy,” Jessie murmured, gently intercepting him.