I reached the panel to my room, crawled out, closed it, and pushed the wardrobe against the wall….-HONGNGOC

Metal scraping against concrete.

I swallowed hard.

And then I remembered Mom’s last week.

How she tried to tell me something when she could barely breathe.

How she grabbed my hand and pointed downward, to the floor, to the house itself, as if the house were the enemy.

And I remembered her last clear words, barely whispered:

“Never drink anything… unless you’re prepared.”

That night, I finally understood.

It wasn’t paranoia.

It was a warning.

I got out of bed barefoot.

I grabbed my phone.

I put it on silent.

I turned on the flashlight at minimum brightness.

Then I walked to the wardrobe.

The wall looked perfect. Smooth.

But now I knew where to look.

I slowly ran my fingers along the paint until I felt a tiny seam, almost like a crack.

I pressed where Daniel had pressed.

Nothing.

I tried again, higher up.

Nothing.

My palms were sweating.

Then I noticed something near the baseboard: a small mark, as if someone had scratched it repeatedly.