When I inherited my mother’s house, I expected memories, not mysteries. On the second night, strange noises led me to the attic, where I found a child’s teddy bear among cobwebs. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone.
The house felt oppressive, its silence punctuated by creaking floorboards and missing items. My unease grew as I discovered a lived-in corner in the attic, littered with candy wrappers and a threadbare teddy bear. My heart raced—someone had been there.
The second night, I set a trap: food on the kitchen table. At midnight, I found him—a small boy, Alex, stealing bread. Terrified, he begged me not to send him back. Dirty and scared, he seemed lost. As I gained his trust, I learned he was running from his abusive guardian, John, who eventually came looking for him.
John’s harsh treatment and Alex’s cries haunted me. Then, I found a letter hidden in a porcelain rooster, written by my mother. She had tried to help Alex and asked me to protect him. Determined, I gathered evidence from neighbors and involved CPS.
Days later, Alex was placed in my care, and we began to rebuild our lives together. Over time, he opened up, and we formed a bond. Months later, I became his guardian. On his seventh birthday, I gave him a new teddy bear, and he hugged me tightly.
We were no longer lost souls—we were a family. Somewhere, I knew my mother was smiling down on us.
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