in his dreams.

A muffled cry wakes her up in the middle of the night. Like every other night, she gets up and wraps her silk robe around her form, walking towards the young boy's room at the end of the hall. The door creaks open, and she turns the lights on, making her way to the bed—towards her son who's cry can be heard through the night.

She caresses his head and places a kiss on his forehead, whispering sweet, loving things into his ear in attempt to eliminate the tears running down his cheeks. A small voice interrupts her, gentle and frail—calls out to her in a small cry.

"He left again, mommy." He says, tears streaming down his cheeks. Who? She wants to ask even though she knows the answer. How could she not? If she has heard the same words every other night for the past few weeks. "Same way as always."

"Sleep, darling. He'll come back soon," She soothes, pressing another kiss to his forehead. And he does so without a fight. It only takes a couple of minutes for the child to to stop it's cry, and another for him to close his eyes. Soon she leaves, turns off the lights, and returns to her bed without another thought.

—

The dreams continue, more frequently than ever. The young child cries and cries, calling out for the same name he has called out every single time. His mother continues to comfort him, whisper sweet things of comfort in his ear, and leaves when he is sleeping soundly. But no matter how many times she comes and goes, the dreams keep coming and the hurt keeps piling.

"Let's get a psychiatrist," she says one night to his father. "He only seems to be getting worse."

"Of course, love," he replies softly, taking her into a warm embrace. "We'll do so in the morning."

There was a cry that night, but no one heard. There was a scream as well, but no one heard. There was another boy, sleeping soundly next to their child, but no one knew.

—

"Is something wrong?" Both parents ask, frightened as they stand in the doctor's office awaiting a response. The man looks over to them, placing down his notes on the desk, a sad expression on his face.

"Your son cannot distinguish between dreams and reality. Fantasies, wishes, made-up beings—it's all the same to his mind. The dreams seem real. They affect him like reality, but they are not so."

"What is it then?" His father whispers, careful not to grab the attention of his child who sits alone in the corner of the room.

"Schizophrenia," he says, and there is nothing they can do to change that.

The mother muffles her cries with her hand, and buries her face into her husband's chest.

—

There are no longer cries, no more screams, no more sleepless nights. Everything seems fine, everything is fine, they insist. Their child lays quietly in his bed, a bottle of pills quietly hidden in one of his drawers. He sleeps all day, sleeps all night, nothing in between other than normal routines.

It was like that for the first week or so, until everything was calm again. The boy