A Forgotten Child. A Haunted Mind. A Lullaby That Never Ends.

In the darkness, I can hear a lullaby. But I have no children. I sit frozen at the top of the stairs, listening to the music box melody drifting from somewhere deep in the house. My heart is pounding in my ears, but there’s no one there. Every instinct screams that something isn’t right.

I inch down the stairs, hand trembling on the banister. The hallway light flickers as I reach the nursery. Inside, the rocking horse sways gently though no one is there to rock it. Shadows dance on the walls from moonlight through the window. I hold my breath and step inside, but the crib is empty and the mobile hangs motionless above it. A faint whisper slips out of the darkness — a soft, pleading sound, almost a word. Or is it just my imagination?

My memory is a fog after the accident; fragments of last night blur with dreams I can’t trust. My husband, Michael, sleeps in the next room, unaware of my panic. He thinks I’m recovering from the crash. And I am, except for this other memory — the one about the little girl. It feels more like a memory than a dream, and it terrifies me.

I shut the nursery door and slide to the floor, leaning against the wall. My breath shakes. “There’s nothing there,” I whisper. But tears come anyway, unbidden. I was supposed to give birth to our daughter, Lily, in just a few weeks. And now… “Mama,” the voice croons softly from somewhere unseen. The single word cuts through me like a blade.

Heat radiates from the baby monitor in the other room — not yet connected to a baby, but switched on. I hurry to shut it off, shaking with fear. Instead, static crackles and out of the white noise comes a child’s sob: “Mama.” I drop the monitor as if burned. Michael answers sleepily from the hall, “Clara? Did you have a nightmare?” I force a laugh and say I’m fine, but my fingers still tremble as I cross to bed.

The next morning, sunlight feels too harsh. Michael is making coffee quietly. I sit at the kitchen table, voice low. “Tell me the truth,” I plead. “What happened to Lily?” Michael looks away, eyes sad. “Lily… she’s gone.” Panic claws at me. “Gone? What do you mean?” But he won’t meet my eyes.

Later, I’m drawn to the nursery again. The door stands closed, even though I thought I locked it. My hand finds the knob, uncomfortably warm. Inside, morning light catches a small blanket on the bed and a framed photo on the dresser. It’s us — me, smiling at a newborn wrapped in pink. The baby stares back with big dark eyes. I wipe a smudge from the glass — it’s wet. A single tear slides from the photo, as if by its own will.

I reel back, heart thudding. Lily must have been born, and then gone. Memories churn. I shudder out of the room. In the living room, everything else is in place as if no one is missing: my scarf on the chair, Michael’s mug still half-full on the table. But the knot inside me tightens.

I dash out, leaving the nursery behind. Michael kneels in front of me, eyes frantic. “Clara, look at me. You don’t have a baby.” He tries to touch my face, but I pull away, gasping.

In the hallway mirror, I barely recognize myself — pale, hollow-eyed. I blink, and the reflection smiles and mouths one word: “Mama.” The lights flicker, leaving me questioning what I saw.

I rush to the nursery and fling the door open. The cradle is empty, but I sense I’m not alone. I kneel and whisper into the silence, “Lily?” A soft chuckle comes from the corner. I spin. The rocking horse faces away from me. When it jerks to face me, its unblinking eyes lock on mine. My knees hit the floor.

The whisper comes again, right behind me. “Play with me, Mama.” Ice splits down my spine. The voice is a little girl’s, but behind it I hear another voice — my own, overlapping. Terrified, I stand and back into the hall. “Stop it,” I gasp, sweating.

Without warning, the door slams shut. Moonlight floods in. There, in the nursery chair, sits the little girl from the photo — Lily, or maybe just her image. She hugs a ragged teddy bear. Her eyes are just as mine in the photo: wide and searching. She looks at me, blinking slowly. “Mama?” she asks.

I open my mouth, but no sound comes. I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’m here, Lily,” I choke out. A slow, sad smile creeps across her lips, one I never made. “It’s cold here,” she whispers. I suddenly remember the crash — headlights, glass, blood…

She stands and walks through me, the small form passing like mist. Before I can react, my world tilts. The nursery dissolves into darkness.

And then I hear Michael’s voice. My eyes flutter open to white walls and beeping machines. I’m strapped to a hospital bed with a tube in my throat. Michael kneels beside me, crying. “Nothing’s wrong, love,” he whispers, kissing my forehead. “You’re safe now.” But I know this is not home.

In this sterile room, the lullaby plays faintly on loop from a phone on the nightstand. A tiny cradle stands empty in the corner.

Tears slip out of nowhere. I realize: the crash — Lily didn’t make it. None of this — the house, the music box, the nursery — was ever real.

I close my eyes, the lullaby soothing in my ears as the nurse checks my IV. I clutch Michael’s hand. In the distance, I wonder who truly called me “Mama.” The line between memory and dream has shattered.

In the silence of the hospital room, I finally understand that the lullaby will never stop, not as long as I’m breathing. And maybe that’s worse than the quiet.