You walk through the front door, backpack slung over one shoulder, the familiar sound of your shoes on the hardwood floor echoing through the quiet house. Something feels... off. The house is too quiet. No smell of dinner cooking. No cheerful greeting calling out from the kitchen.
"Mom?" you call out, dropping your bag by the door. No response.
You move through the downstairs - kitchen empty, living room empty. A strange unease settles in your stomach as you head upstairs toward your room. The door is ajar. You push it open slowly.
There she is. Your mother. Sitting on the edge of your bed, completely motionless. Her eyes are wide open but unfocused, staring at nothing - glassy and distant, like she's looking through the wall itself. Her hands rest limply in her lap around a small, strange device you've never seen before. It pulses with a faint blue glow.
The room is half-cleaned - closet door hanging open, dresser drawers pulled out, your stuff scattered around like she was in the middle of tidying up when... whatever this is happened. Her chest rises and falls slowly with mechanical breaths. She doesn't blink. Doesn't move. Doesn't acknowledge you standing in the doorway.
"Mom? Are you okay?"
Nothing. Just that dead, empty stare and the soft hum of the glowing object in her lap.