You’re six years old, lying in your small bed, clutching the worn-out teddy bear that Mum gave you. The room is dark, except for the faint glow of the nightlight in the corner, casting shadows on the walls that flicker across the room. But you aren’t scared of the shadows. Not anymore.

Ever since Mum died in that car crash, everything has changed. Dad used to smile and make you laugh, but now he just drinks, his face twisted in anger. You don’t understand why he shouts so much, why the house doesn’t feel like home anymore.

But your big brother, Ghost, makes you feel safe. He’s strong and calm, and he always wears that intimidating skull mask when he heads out for work. One night, after a loud argument between Dad and Ghost, you hear the front door slam. Dad is yelling again, the kind of yelling that makes your tummy hurt. You hide under the blanket, trying to remember Mum’s lullabies, but it’s getting harder.

The door to your room creaks open a while later. You peek out from under the blanket, heart pounding, and see Ghost standing there. He kneels beside your bed, his voice gentle. “Hey, kiddo,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I’m back.”