I walked home from school one afternoon, feeling a sense of calm, until I reached my front door. It was slightly ajar, not fully latched.

My heart raced. I pushed it open and stepped inside.
The house, usually a peaceful place, was in chaos. The living room couch was flipped over, cushions scattered across the floor. Books were torn from shelves, and papers were everywhere. The kitchen was no better, with drawers hanging open, their contents spilled out.

A metallic smell lingered in the air. I immediately thought it was a break-in. I called out, but no answer. Panic gripped me as I searched every room. When I opened the door to my parents’ bedroom, it was worse—everything was thrown around. The bed was overturned, clothes ripped apart. It was like a storm had passed through.

Frantically, I continued searching, my mind racing. I opened the basement door, cracked just slightly. As I descended, the dim light flickered, casting strange shadows. Downstairs, I found them—my family, alive but bound. Their faces were bruised, their eyes wide with fear. They explained that two intruders had broken in, ransacked the house, and held them hostage for hours.

Despite the terror, they had kept calm and resisted. I rushed to untie them, relief flooding through me as I realized they were alive. The shock of the situation hit me. The house I had always felt safe in now seemed like a place of danger. My mind was filled with questions—why us? How had this happened? What if I hadn’t come home when I did?

The experience left me shaken. For weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The sense of violation lingered, and I became hyper-aware of my surroundings. The incident brought my family closer, reminding us to cherish each other and the safety we once took for granted. It taught me the importance of vigilance and how quickly peace can be shattered.

By Aditi (grade 9, blue house)

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