As if there were something more inside than feathers.
Clara frowned.
—Leo —he asked carefully—. Since when did he suffer?
The child doubted.
—Since Mom left.
The phrase landed heavily.
James was a recent widower. His mother had died three months earlier. A domestic accident, according to staff rumors.
Clara took a deep breath.
—What do you feel when your head touches the pillow?
Leo clenched his fists.
—It’s like things are stabbing me. Like… like it’s pushing my face. I can’t breathe.
Clara felt a chill.
She looked at the pillow again.
—Does it happen with other pillows?
Leo pegó.
—Just that.
Clara made a decision.
He didn’t wake James up.
He didn’t call anyone.
Se septó eп la cama y quitar la flÅпda coп cυidado.
The feathers appeared.
But between them… something more.
Small rigid fragments.
Thin.
Translucent.
Clara put her hand in and pulled out a pee.
Glass.
Small glass chips, mixed with the filling.
His heart skipped a beat.
It was not an imaginary sensation.
No era υп berriпche.
It was real pain.
He looked at Leo.
—Anyone else want to sleep here?
The child hit.
—Dad, it’s too much.
Clara reinserted her hand, with more care.
There were several pieces. Not many. Enough to be easily noticed, but enough to hurt when the weight of the head pressed down.
Clara’s breathing became heavy.
This was a factory defect.
Era iпteпcioпal.
He got up.
—Come with me —he said gently.
He took Leo to the guest room, put a simple pillow on him, no embroidery, no luxury.
The child lay down in fear.
Clara placed the pillow under her head.
Nothing.
Leo breathed a sigh of relief.
Sᵅs hombros пo se teпsaroп.
His eyes closed slowly.
He didn’t scream.
Clara felt a mixture of relief and terror.
He returned to the original bedroom with the pillow under his arm.
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