I’d never known fear like the day my daughter collapsed in the park. One bee sting. That’s all it took. Her throat closed, her breathing failed, and by nightfall—she was in a coma.
- For fifteen days, I sat by her swollen, silent body, praying through the steady beeping of machines. Then, finally—she stirred. Opened her eyes. Spoke.
But her first words chilled me:
“Where’s the man with the red shoes?”
At first, I brushed it off as a dream. Until he walked into her hospital room.
Tall. Pale. Red shoes.
“I’ve come to collect what’s mine,” he said. I stood between him and my daughter. He didn’t fight. Just warned:
“She wasn’t meant to return.”
Then he vanished.
I still don’t know what he was—death itself or something darker. But one thing’s certain:
My daughter came back from a place I’ll never understand.
And someone was waiting for her there.
But he didn’t get her. Not that day. Not while I’m still breathing.