The room was dark, but not completely.
A thin line of light slipped in through the gap beneath the door, stretching across the floor like something alive. The ceiling fan moved slowly, click… click… click, each sound louder than it should have been.
The boy sat curled up on the bed.
He was only five.
His knees were pulled tight against his chest, his small hands gripping the fabric of his pajamas as if letting go would make something happen.
"I don't want to sleep…" he whispered.
His voice was shaky, almost breaking.
"I don't want to sleep. If I sleep… she'll come."
His eyes were wide open, fixed on the corner of the room. Nothing was there. He knew that.
Still, he couldn't look away.
Every night was the same.
The moment his eyes closed, the dream returned.
The village he had never visited.
The houses that felt wrong.
And the shadow of the girl—always locked away somewhere, always waiting.
He shook his head hard, as if trying to throw the thought out.
"No… no… I won't sleep today," he said, rubbing his eyes with his fists. "If I stay awake, she can't find me."
But his eyelids were heavy.
Too heavy.
A soft sound came from the doorway.
His mother stood there, watching him quietly.
She walked in and sat beside him on the bed, gently placing a hand on his head. Her palm was warm. Real. Safe.
"Why are you still awake?" she asked softly.
The boy's lips trembled.
"She'll come again," he said. "In my dream. She always comes."
His mother sighed, not angrily—just tired.
"You're just having bad dreams," she said, brushing his hair back. "The doctor said it's sleep paralysis. Your body wakes up, but your mind is still dreaming."
"But it hurts," the boy said quietly.
His mother froze for a second.
"It only feels real," she said after a moment, forcing a smile. "Nothing is actually happening. You're safe here."
He wanted to believe her.
He really did.
But every time he woke up screaming, the fear stayed.
Sometimes even the pain stayed—like a memory stuck inside his body.
His mother pulled the blanket over him and kissed his forehead.
"Try to sleep," she whispered. "I'm right here. Nothing will happen."
She turned off the light and left the door slightly open.
The room went quiet again.
The boy lay flat now, staring at the ceiling.
Don't close your eyes.
Don't close your eyes.
His breathing slowly became uneven.
The fan kept turning.
The clock kept ticking.
Without realizing it, his eyelids began to fall.
"No…" he whispered one last time.
And then—
Darkness.