Samantha's mother couldn't sleep.
The digital clock on her nightstand blinked 2:41 AM in red, like a warning light pulsing in the dark. From down the hall came the soft creak of floorboards — the same sound she'd heard the night before. The same one she'd dismissed as the house settling. But she knew better now.
Her daughter hadn't been in bed.
And when she confronted her that morning — again — Samantha had only muttered some half-baked excuse about not being able to sleep. Nothing solid. Nothing she could hold onto. Nothing that made her feel like her daughter was okay.
She sat up, tugging her robe around her, and walked toward the hallway. Her feet were silent on the wooden floor, years of motherhood teaching her how to move without waking anyone.
The light was still on in Samantha's room.
She hesitated, then slowly opened the door.
Samantha was at her desk, hunched over something small in her hand, completely still. Her eyes were shut, like she was listening to a faraway song only she could hear.
"Sam?" she said softly.
Samantha jolted upright and stuffed the pendant under a book in one swift movement. Too swift. Too guilty.
"What are you doing up?" her mother asked.
"I couldn't sleep," Samantha replied, rubbing her eyes. "Just... thinking."
Her voice was tired but calm. Too calm. Like a child trying to fake composure during a fire drill.
Her mother's gaze flicked to the desk. "Was that... the necklace you found?"
"It's nothing." Samantha stood up quickly. "I was just bored. Couldn't sleep, that's all."
But the look in her eyes told a different story. Glassy, unfocused. Like she wasn't entirely here.
Something had changed.
---
She waited until morning to call the doctor.
Not for a check-up. For a consultation.
The woman on the line was soft-spoken and patient, the kind of tone Samantha's mother had used a hundred times when calming parents in her old job as a school nurse. And now, she was the one asking for help.
"She's been sleepwalking. Wandering. Talking about... visions. She's convinced she's seeing things," she whispered into the phone, as if speaking too loudly would make it more real.
"Has she ever had a psychological evaluation before?"
"No. No, she's always been normal. Smart, even. Independent. A little intense, but that's just how she is." Her voice broke without warning. "But now... I don't know. She's lying. She's distracted. I found her out in the yard at two in the morning barefoot. She said there was a man out there."
"Has she shown any signs of paranoia? Hallucinations?"
"I don't know what's real anymore," she admitted. "She says she's not hallucinating. But she's hearing things. Seeing things. She holds this necklace like it's... magic. Like it means something."
She paused. The word magic made her sound ridiculous.
But there was nothing funny about watching her daughter slip away.
---
She met with the counselor that Friday. Just to talk.
Just to plan.
They suggested observation. Somewhere calm. Structured. "Not a full psychiatric ward," the woman clarified, kindly. "Just a wellness facility. Somewhere she can be safe. Watched. Evaluated."
Her mother nodded, numb. What else could she do? Pretend nothing was happening? Hope it went away?
But Samantha wasn't getting better. She was going deeper. Into herself. Into whatever this was.
She didn't eat dinner that night. She said she wasn't hungry. Then she locked herself in her room and didn't say a word till morning.
---
That evening, she stood by the doorway of her daughter's room and watched her sleep.
Samantha looked peaceful now, the lines in her forehead gone. Her fingers were curled around something under her pillow — she didn't have to guess what. That pendant never left her side.
She was just a girl. Sixteen. Still a child in some ways. Still needing her mother, even if she acted like she didn't.
A lump formed in her throat.
She hated this. Hated that it had come to this.
But the look in Samantha's eyes lately — distant, frightened, lost — had haunted her for too long. And the idea that it could get worse… that something truly dangerous could happen if she didn't act…
It was unbearable.
---
She sat at the kitchen table and signed the papers the next morning.
It was only temporary. Just a week. Maybe two. Just to see. To get a diagnosis. Maybe they'd tell her it was stress. Maybe it was hormonal. Maybe it wasn't what she feared.
But if it was...
She needed to know.
As she sealed the envelope and tucked it into her bag, she heard Samantha coming down the stairs.
"Morning," Sam mumbled, grabbing toast.
Her mother smiled gently. "Morning, baby."
She watched her daughter shuffle past, shoulders hunched, eyes dull, wearing Ron's hoodie again. Clutching something in her pocket like a secret.
And she knew.
Tomorrow, she'd make the call.
Because Samantha might hate her for it. But if this was what saving her daughter looked like — then she'd carry that hate.
Until her baby came back to her.