The Room of Forgotten Lullabies

Half-open windows let in a dull grey light that had replaced the sun hours ago. The whole house felt suspended in a slow breath, as if holding itself together just long enough for someone to dare breaking the silence. I stood outside the old nursery, fingers brushing the wooden frame that still had dents where a tiny hand once knocked from the inside. Those knocks never reached me in time.

The hallway smelled of dust and a faint trace of baby powder that somehow still lived in the air. My chest tightened the same way it did every year. Without fail. Without mercy.

I placed my palm on the door. It felt colder than the rest of the house, almost like it still belonged to the winter our lives froze. My breath fogged out slowly. I had practiced this moment in my head a hundred times. I always imagined I’d pull the knob with confidence and finally step inside.

But every time, my courage melted before it even warmed.

Behind me, Sarah’s footsteps arrived softly. She had grown so quickly I barely recognized the child who once hid behind my arm. Now she was nearly as tall as me, though she still dragged her sleeves when she was nervous.

“Again?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I thought maybe today,” I replied.

She leaned against the opposite wall and folded her arms. “Dad… you say that every year.”

She wasn't being rude, just honest. She always was. Honesty was the only thing that survived the storm that hit our family. That, and the silence.

“I heard you crying last night,” she said.

I closed my eyes. “I didn’t think you’d hear.”

“I always hear,” she replied.

Silence wrapped around us again, but this time it didn’t suffocate. It simply sat with us, patient, waiting.

I let my fingers rest on the old brass knob. It had rusted around the edges, a reminder that even the strongest metals surrender to time. My hand trembled as I turned it. The sound echoed softly, like a memory waking from sleep.

“Dad,” Sarah said from behind me. “Can I tell you something?”

I looked at her. She was staring at her shoes, as if ashamed of the words forming inside her.

“I come here too,” she said. “Almost every night.”

My stomach tightened.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” she continued. “But… I keep feeling like if I open the room, she’ll be inside. Sitting in her crib. Waiting for us.”

Her voice cracked, just barely, but enough to stab straight through my chest.

I stepped toward her and placed my hands on her shoulders. “Sarah… sweetheart, what happened wasn’t your fault.”

She shook her head. “You and mom used to say that, but you never believed it. I could see it in your eyes.”

She wasn’t wrong. I never blamed her, but I also never healed. And I know she could feel that. Kids always do.

“I tried to check on her,” Sarah whispered. “But I was only nine. I didn’t know she was sick. I didn’t know anything.”

“You knew enough to run to the neighbor when she stopped breathing,” I reminded her gently. “You saved her for longer than we ever could have.”

Her eyes filled with tears she didn’t bother wiping. “Then why does it still hurt like I killed her?”

Because grief lies.

Because guilt grows in silence.

Because love leaves marks when it breaks.

I wrapped my arms around her and felt her collapse into me. For the first time in years, she cried like a child, not a young woman pretending to be strong.

“You didn’t lose her,” I whispered. “We all did. And none of us knew how to put each other back together.”

She lifted her head slowly. “Can we try now?”

I nodded.

Together, we turned toward the nursery. The door creaked open, sending a shiver through both of us. Pale moonlight floated across the small room. The crib still stood where we left it. Her stuffed rabbit lay in the corner, half-covered in dust.

Nothing had changed.

Except us.

We stepped inside hand in hand.

Grief didn’t fade. But it shifted, softened, as if finally willing to let us breathe.

For the first time, I realized the truth:

Some doors don’t keep the past trapped.

They wait until we’re strong enough to walk in without falling apart.