Nights grew longer than the hours they contained. Ethan started sleeping with his back against the wall, as if he could pin it in place, keep it from opening. He’d flinch when trucks passed outside, certain it was knocking from inside the studs. David found tiny holes punched through insulation, as if someone had been testing how far sound could travel. Once, reaching for a dropped toy under Ethan’s bed, his fingers brushed a strip of duct tape stuck to the floor—nothing attached, just waiting. A week later, Ethan’s favorite stuffed bear vanished, only to reappear three days after that on top of the closet shelf no one could reach without a chair. The baby monitor picked up whispers at 3:17 a.m., a low murmur that stopped the moment David stepped into the hallway. “Maybe it’s interference,” the officer suggested, but interference didn’t explain the way Ethan’s doorframe grew new scratches overnight, all at child-eye height, as if someone had marked exactly how close they could get without being se… Continues…