So we created new routines.

Before bed, we checked each door together.

We installed a smart lock.

We shared tea instead of fear.

Margaret slowly opened up — about her past, her husband, even about me.

And little by little, the 3 a.m. knocks disappeared.

Her eyes grew warmer.

Her voice steadier.

Her laughter returned.

The doctor called it healing.

I called it peace.

And in the end, I learned something profound:

Helping someone heal doesn’t mean fixing them — it means walking with them through their shadows long enough to see the light come back.