My heart pounded so violently it hurt, each beat echoing the words that had just come through the phone. An explosive device. The phrase lodged in my mind like a shard of glass, impossible to remove. I clutched Mikey closer, his tiny form warm and soft against me, his innocent eyes blinking up with unknowing curiosity. The world felt suddenly foreign, every sound amplified, every shadow suspicious.
“Who?” I managed to whisper, the question trembling out of me before I could gather my thoughts. “Who would do this?”
“Not over the phone, sweetheart,” came my father’s voice — strained, urgent, filled with a depth of fear I hadn’t heard since childhood. “Just keep yourself and Mikey safe until I get there. Promise me.”
The sound of him calling me sweetheart after so many years made my throat tighten. I had mourned him long ago, accepted the silence, the absence, the void. And yet here he was — alive, warning me of a danger that I could barely comprehend.
“I promise,” I said softly, tears welling in my eyes as my voice broke.
The old woman who had been standing nearby — the stranger who somehow seemed to know far more than she should — gave me a small, resolute nod. “Stay here with your baby,” she murmured. “I’ll keep watch.”
I sank onto the wooden bench, clutching Mikey close, my arms trembling. The minutes crawled by in agonizing silence, each one stretching longer than the last. My thoughts spiraled between disbelief and dread, wondering how my life had gone from peaceful to perilous in mere moments.
Then I saw it — the black car pulling to the curb, the door opening slowly. My breath caught in my throat. He stepped out, his movements steady but cautious. My father. Older, yes — lines carved deep into his face — but unmistakably him.
“Dad,” I gasped, the word breaking free with a sob as I rose to meet him.