I read it three times before my brain fully processed the words.

A cold wave rushed through my entire body.

Them.

My parents.

Who else could it mean?

I looked around the room with growing panic. Suddenly the villa didn’t feel comforting anymore. It felt suffocating.

I checked the tissue again, hoping maybe there was more written somewhere, but there wasn’t.

Just that warning.

And then another terrifying realization hit me:

No one had been in my room besides my parents for weeks.

I heard footsteps outside the hallway.

Slow. Heavy.

My father.

Instinctively, I shoved the tissue into my sleeve and closed my eyes halfway, pretending my vision was still gone.

The bedroom door opened.

“Morning,” my father said carefully.

For the first time since recovering my sight, I saw his face clearly.

He looked exhausted. Pale. Nervous.

Not relieved. Not happy.

Nervous.

“You awake?” he asked.

I forced myself to nod slowly.

He stood there longer than normal, watching me too carefully. My chest tightened as I realized something horrifying:

He was studying me like he was trying to see whether I knew something.

Then his eyes drifted toward the side of the bed where I’d found the note.

Just for a second.

But I noticed.

And he noticed that I noticed.

A strange silence filled the room.

Finally he cleared his throat and smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

“Your mom made breakfast,” he said. “We should keep your routine normal today.”

Normal.

The word sent chills through me.

After he left, I waited until his footsteps disappeared downstairs before pulling the tissue back out. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold it.

That’s when I noticed something I’d missed earlier.

There was faint writing pressed into the back of the tissue, almost invisible unless the light hit it correctly.

I moved closer to the window and tilted it carefully.

A second message slowly appeared beneath the first.

“They lied about the accident.”

And underneath that…

“I’m still in the house.”