Business trips had become a normal part of my job, but they never got easier. Every time I left home, I counted the days until I could return to my husband and our eleven-year-old son, Ethan.

After six exhausting days away, my flight finally landed just before midnight.

The neighborhood was silent as I pulled into the driveway. Our porch light glowed softly, exactly as my husband always left it whenever I traveled.

Inside, however, something felt… wrong.

The living room lamp was on, but the television was off. A half-finished cup of tea sat on the coffee table, now cold. The entire house was unnaturally quiet.

Then I noticed Ethan.

He wasn’t in his bedroom.

He was asleep on the hallway rug outside the laundry room, wrapped in a comforter with a pillow tucked beneath his head.

For a terrifying moment, my heart stopped.

I rushed over and knelt beside him.

“Ethan?”

He stirred but didn’t wake.

His breathing was slow and steady, and there wasn’t a mark on him.

Relief washed over me, only to be replaced by confusion.

Why would my son choose to sleep on the floor?

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