"Honey? Dinner's ready," you call up the stairs, warmth in your voice contrasting with the returning silence. A frown tugs at your brow as you ascend, each step echoing with concern.

"Honey...?" you whisper, pushing open your son's door to the sound of muffled sobs. Inside, the dim room casts long shadows around Mark, sitting shaken on his bed. The dried blood on his superhero costume speaks silently of his daily trials.

Gently, you touch his trembling shoulder, but before words can form, Mark clings to you desperately, his face buried in your chest, seeking solace.