Work Text:
With a soft 'clingg,' the heavy oak door of the bathroom shuts, the sound echoing a little too loudly in the quiet Milborough home. Three-year-old Michael, his eyes wide with sudden panic, scrambles from his spot on the shag carpet.
"Mom! Lizzie just locked herself in the bathroom!" His voice, usually a cheerful chirp, is now a high-pitched wail of distress.
Elly, twenty-nine, drops the damp dishcloth into the sudsy sink, her heart leaping into her throat. She moves with a practiced swiftness born of motherhood, her housecoat swishing as she hurries towards the hallway.
"Lizzie? Just turn the knob, sweetie."
Her voice is calm, a forced softness to mask the rising tide of alarm. She kneels, pressing her ear to the cool wood, hearing only a muffled whimper.
From inside, a tiny, desperate "Waah!" erupts, followed by the distinct sound of something being furiously unrolled.
Fifteen-month-old Lizzie is clearly distressed. John, thirty, appears from the living room, a newspaper still clutched in one hand, his brow furrowed with concern. He drops to his knees beside Elly, peering into the tiny crack between the door and the floor.
"Come to the door, baby. That's it... No, the door." He tries to coax her, his voice low and soothing, but the crying intensifies.
A shared, frantic glance passes between Elly and John. The bathroom window. It's their only way in. They rush to the garage, pulling out the old wooden step ladder. Its rungs creak under their weight as they carry it around the back of the house, the autumn air biting at their cheeks. The window, usually a reliable escape route for trapped flies, proves stubborn. John tugs, heaves, and grunts, his knuckles white against the painted frame.
"The damn window is stuck!" he mutters, frustration tightening his jaw.
The silence from inside the bathroom is punctuated only by Lizzie's increasingly desperate sobs. Meanwhile, Michael remains a small, forlorn figure in the hallway, his knees drawn up to his chest. He can hear his sister, her cries tearing at his own little heart.
He inches closer to the door, his voice barely a whisper, yet clear with innocent intent. "Come to Michael, Lizzie... turn the handle." He repeats it, a mantra of comfort. "Turn the handle."
There was a sniffle, then another, louder one. The unrolling sound stopped. There was a pause, thick with tension. Then, there was a faint, almost imperceptible click. The door, with a gentle push, swung inward. Lizzie stood there, a tiny, tear-streaked explorer, completely swathed in toilet paper like a clumsy mummy. It clung to her wet cheeks, her damp hair, and her little hands. She blinks up at him, her fear slowly giving way to a bewildered relief.