Last night followed the usual bedtime routine—bubble bath, bedtime stories, lullabies, and the classic promise: stay in your own bed and you’ll get extra pancakes in the morning. My daughter, Lira, curled up under unicorn sheets with fairy lights glowing softly around her. Across the hall, my son, Cyrus, snuggled into his dinosaur bed, surrounded by more stuffed animals than floor space.
After tucking them in, I finally settled down, ready to enjoy a few quiet hours of rest.
But around 2 a.m., something felt off. The monitor was silent. Too silent. No shifting blankets. No sleepy murmurs. Just stillness.
Out of instinct, I got up.
Lira’s bed was empty. Her blanket was on the floor. Her favorite doll—gone. I rushed to Cyrus’s room. He was missing too.
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