Life on our family farm used to be filled with noise—laughter, running feet, and my younger brother Leo’s endless energy. That changed last fall. The boy who once sprinted through fields and climbed fences grew quiet and withdrawn, as if sound itself had become dangerous.

The change came after one afternoon near the woods at the edge of our land. Whatever happened there, Leo never spoke of it. Instead, he refused to sleep in our shared bedroom—or even in the house. He moved into the old barn, curling up each night in the hayloft beside Daisy, our aging Jersey cow. My parents dismissed it as imagination or comfort, but I knew better. The barn wasn’t a choice. It was a refuge.

One night, I followed him quietly. Hidden in the shadows, I heard him whisper to Daisy, thanking her for “not telling” and for remembering what she had seen. In that moment, I realized he wasn’t hiding with her—he was hiding behind her. She was the only witness who could never speak.

The next day, Leo broke down and begged me never to open a red toolbox or show anyone what was inside. I promised—then later found it hidden beneath the shed floorboards. Inside was a faded photo, unfamiliar belongings, and clues tied to a hiker who had vanished months earlier.

Leo hadn’t lost his childhood to imagination. He had lost it to knowledge. And so I chose silence too—becoming another keeper of a secret too heavy for a child, protected only by trust, loyalty, and the quiet presence of a cow who remembers.