And that’s when I heard it.
“Grandma, don’t drink that tea.”
The voice was small, but clear. Not a mumble. Not a sound. Words. Real words.
I froze, the honey jar halfway off the shelf. For a second I wondered if I’d imagined it—if my mind, freed from the constant fog I’d been living in for the last couple of years, had finally snapped in some new way.
Then I turned.
Damian stood in the kitchen doorway, clutching his stuffed elephant, his brown eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my heart slam against my ribs.
“Grandma,” he whispered, “please don’t drink that tea. Mom put something in it. Something bad.”
The mug slipped out of my hand. It hit the tile floor and shattered, hot tea exploding across the white squares like a dark stain spreading from the center of a wound.
I didn’t even look at the mess. I couldn’t take my eyes off my grandson.
“Damian,” I breathed. “Did you just…talk?”
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