Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

Every night at 2:17 a.m., the baby monitor crackled to life. Emma didn’t have a baby. She lay frozen in bed, staring at the glowing screen on her nightstand. At first, it was just static. Then came the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing—slow, wet, too close to the microphone. She told herself it was interference. Old electronics did that. Still, she unplugged it. At 2:17 the next night, her phone rang. Unknown Number. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t move. The voicemail notification appeared secon