Lisa leaned closer to the baby, as if afraid someone might overhear her. Her voice was barely a whisper, yet in the silence of the hospital room every word sounded unsettlingly clear.

— Now you’ll know when he comes, — she whispered to her little sister.

I blinked slowly. My heart skipped a beat.

— Who comes? — I asked, trying to sound calm even though a chill ran down my spine.

Lisa lifted her head and looked at me with a seriousness far beyond her four years.

— The one who stands by the door at night, — she said simply.

The nurse, who had been quietly adjusting the monitors, froze for a brief second. The room suddenly felt too quiet — only the soft breathing of the newborn and the steady beep of the heart monitor filled the air.

— Lisa, sweetheart… who are you talking about? — I asked, forcing a gentle smile.

She shrugged.

— He’s nice. But Dad isn’t supposed to know about him.

The sentence sounded so casual that it made it even more frightening. I remembered how, months earlier, Lisa had mentioned a “friend” who visited at night. My husband and I had dismissed it as childhood imagination. But here, under the bright hospital lights, it felt different.

I carefully took the baby back into my arms. Lisa didn’t resist; she kept staring at her sister as if some invisible bond had already formed between them.

— You must be tired, honey. Sit here for a bit, — I said softly.

She obeyed, swinging her legs from the chair. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her romper, but her expression remained strangely focused — too mature for a child her age.

When a nurse led her into the hallway for a few minutes, I was left alone with the baby and my thoughts. Lisa’s words echoed in my head. Why had she said that? And why with such certainty?

That evening my husband arrived, glowing with happiness. He took photos, kissed the baby’s forehead, and laughed softly. Lisa stayed unusually quiet. When he asked if she liked her little sister, she simply said:

— Now there are two of us.

He smiled, unaware of the chill that passed through me again.

Later, when the room dimmed into evening shadows, Lisa came closer to me and whispered:

— Mom… you see him too, right?

— See who? — I asked quietly.

She paused, searching for words.

— The one who smiles when you sleep. He said he’s going to protect us.

My breath caught. I remembered nights during my pregnancy when I’d woken up with the strange feeling that someone was standing beside the bed. I had blamed it on hormones and exhaustion.

— Lisa, that’s just your imagination, — I said, though my voice lacked conviction.

She looked at me for a long moment without blinking.

— No. He’s real. But you don’t need to be scared. He likes babies.

Then she calmly went back to her father as if nothing unusual had happened.

In the weeks that followed, life at home seemed normal on the surface. Lisa became a caring big sister — bringing diapers, humming lullabies, gently touching the baby’s tiny hands. Yet sometimes I caught her speaking softly to someone in an empty room.

One evening, I heard her whisper:

— Not today. Mommy’s still awake.

I walked in. She was sitting beside the crib. No one else was there.

— Who are you talking to? — I asked.

She looked up at me, perfectly calm.

— The one who promised nothing bad will happen to us.

Then she added quietly:

— But he said you wouldn’t believe me anyway.

I opened my mouth to respond, but at that moment the crib rocked gently on its own. The windows were closed. There was no breeze.

I stood frozen. Lisa gave a small, knowing smile.

— See? — she said softly. — He’s here.

And for the first time, I felt real fear — not for myself, but at the thought that my daughter might know something I would never be able to understand.