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For a long moment, she just stared.
Trying to understand.
Trying to make sense of what she was looking at.
Then a thought crossed her mind—uninvited, unwelcome.
What if it wasn’t her skin?
What if it was something… in her environment?
The next morning, Margaret did something she hadn’t considered before.
She checked her surroundings.
Her blanket.
Her chair.
The seams of the fabric.
At first, everything looked normal.
Clean.
Just the way she always kept it.
But then… she noticed something small.
Almost invisible unless you were really looking.
Tiny dark specks along the stitching of the cushion.
She leaned closer.
Her stomach tightened.
Because suddenly, the pieces started to come together.
The itching.
The marks.
The sleepless nights.
Margaret stepped back slowly, her sense of comfort dissolving in seconds.
This wasn’t dry skin.
This wasn’t just winter.
Something had been there… with her.
Night after night.
Unnoticed.
Panic didn’t hit all at once.
It crept in.
Quiet. Cold.
The kind that makes you question everything—every place you’ve rested, every moment you thought you were safe.
She grabbed her phone and started searching.
Symptoms.
Signs.
Causes.
And with every result she read, the same possibility appeared again and again.