We walked toward the parking area, our footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floor. Shops were closing for the night, and announcements flickered across the departure boards overhead. People hurried past us, focused on catching their flights.
Kenzo slowed down.
“You okay?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
Near the exit doors, he stopped abruptly.
“Mama.”
His voice made me turn immediately.
“What is it?”
He looked up at me, fear clear in his expression. “We can’t go home.”
I knelt in front of him, trying to stay calm. “Why would you say that?”
“Something bad is going to happen,” he said, his voice trembling.
I held him closer, speaking gently. “You’re safe. Everything is okay.”
He shook his head. “You have to believe me.”
There was something in the way he said it that made me pause.
I asked him to explain.
His words came quietly, almost as if he was afraid someone else might hear. He described what he had overheard that morning—his father speaking on the phone, saying something about needing to be far away, about something happening while we were asleep.
At first, I wanted to dismiss it. To explain it away as a misunderstanding.
But memories began to surface. Small details I had ignored before. Conversations that didn’t fully make sense at the time.
I stood slowly, my thoughts racing.
“I believe you,” I said.
