The hallway is empty again, too empty—as if every sound, every echo, every trace of life has retreated, waiting for something else to step forward. The silence doesn't feel like rest. It feels like breath being held. Someone's breath. Something's.
The hair clip trembles in my palm as if it remembers being torn from her hair. My daughter. My baby. My only anchor to this world.
Gone.
Taken.
Claimed.
That last word burns inside my mind like a brand. I don't know where it came from until I hear the softest shift of motion behind me—like fabric brushing against stone.
I turn, slowly, painfully.
He's there.
Standing only a few feet away.
My ghost husband.
I don't remember him appearing. He never arrives like a man. He arrives like a cold thought—or a memory you tried to bury under years of dust.
He steps into the light, and the world dims around him as if light itself fears to touch him. His face is still too perfect, too still, too sculpted by something that didn't understand humanity but tried to imitate it anyway. His eyes remain black, bottomless voids that reflect nothing and swallow everything.
"Where is she?" I whisper, my voice a cracked thread.
His expression softens. A cruel imitation of tenderness.
"You care for her," he murmurs.
I clench my jaw. "Where. Is. She."
He drifts closer, the temperature dropping with every step. The hallway lights flicker, reacting to his presence like they're tearing themselves apart to avoid him.
"You still speak like a woman of the living world," he says as if amused. "You still believe demands carry weight here."
"This isn't your world," I hiss.
He smiles faintly. "Everything becomes mine, eventually."
My stomach twists.
He stops inches from me. Too close. Close enough that the cold radiates off him like a storm. His breath, if he breathes at all, smells of rain-soaked earth and rot. A scent of graves. Of endings.
"Where is my daughter?" I repeat, barely able to keep my voice steady.
His fingers lift, brushing my cheek with a coldness that makes my skin scream. He touches me like he owns me. Like he always has.
"She followed your footsteps," he says softly. "Little feet chasing after shadows."
A beat.
"Chasing after you."
My knees weaken. I grip the wall to stay upright.
"Tell me where she is," I beg. "Please."
His smile widens into something shaped like affection—but built out of something darker.
"Do you remember our wedding?" he whispers.
A blade of memory slides into my spine.
The Boundary Land.
That abandoned chapel made of rotting wood and ash.
The tattered veil.
The candles that burned blue.
The ghost family watching like witnesses to a ritual no one should survive.
My own voice echoing as I said the words I didn't mean.
As he forced my hand into his.
I swallow the panic rising in my throat.
"That wasn't a wedding," I say. "That was a nightmare."
His head tilts slightly. "To you. Perhaps. To me, it was sacred."
He draws closer still.
"And unfinished."
I shove him away instinctively—but my hand hits nothing. He dissolves into mist, then reforms behind me. His voice curls around my ear, soft and poisonous.
"You left me standing at the threshold between worlds," he murmurs. "Half-bound. Half-wed. Unfulfilled."
I turn sharply. "I escaped you."
His voice darkens, dripping with old rage.
"No one escapes me."
I feel the walls pulse. The floor trembles. The entire hospital seems to breathe with him, like it shares his heartbeat.
"You walked away from a bond that demanded blood," he continues. "You tore yourself from the vow. You stole yourself from me."
His fingers slide down my arm—cold, burning, claiming.
"But you came back," he says. "And you brought the child."
"No," I whisper. "I didn't bring her here. She wandered. She was scared."
He steps closer until our foreheads almost touch. His voice drops into a low, intimate whisper.
"She was born under my shadow."
I freeze.
"Our worlds touched the day she took her first breath. You crossed the Boundary Land long before her birth—but the door did not close behind you."
His voice softens, eerie and reverent.
"She belongs to both worlds. She belongs to you… and to me."
"I'm not her father," I spit.
His smile sharpens at the edges. "Not fleshly. Not human. But the moment you stepped into my world, you sealed a part of yourself to me."
His fingers rest against my chest, over my heart.
"And everything born of you carries my echo."
My vision blurs. "Stop lying."
But his voice doesn't break. It doesn't tremble. It doesn't waver.
"I saw her before you did," he says.
Something in me cracks.
"I watched her tiny heartbeat form. I felt her cry before she cried. I stood by you in every shadow, whispering through your dreams."
He leans forward. His lips almost touch my ear.
"She looked at you for the first time… and looked at me through you."
My stomach drops.
"She was mine the moment she existed."
"No!" I scream, stepping back. "She's not yours! She's not—"
"She is claimed."
His voice becomes a roar.
The floor cracks beneath my feet.
The lights explode.
The walls peel back as though ripped by invisible claws.
Then silence.
Deep, suffocating silence.
He watches me, expression shifting from fury to something quieter. Something more deadly.
"You don't understand what she is," he says. "But I do."
I stare at him, shaking. "You hurt her—I swear I will—"
He lifts a hand.
The threat dies in my throat.
"I would never hurt her," he whispers. "She is the bridge. The child of two realms. A spirit-bearer. A light in the dark."
His voice softens into something almost gentle.
"She is the future of my world."
My blood freezes.
"And you," he continues, "are her mother. My bride. My connection to the living world. You carry the key. The link. The doorway."
He cups my face, cold and gentle.
"You exist between breaths—half here, half there. You belong to me."
My voice shatters. "I belong to no one."
But he doesn't get angry.
Instead, he smiles a sad, broken smile. A smile of something aching, ancient, long-starved.
"You will," he whispers. "Once you see her. Once you understand."
"Then take me to her," I beg.
"No."
His voice turns deadly soft.
"You must choose to find her. Only love can cross the boundary safely. Only a mother's heart can navigate the paths. If I show you the way… you will die before you reach her."
My breath stops.
He steps closer.
"But I can offer something else."
His hand, cold as death, pulls mine to his chest. My fingers brush fabric—old, torn wedding cloth.
"A second ceremony," he says.
"A complete vow."
"A true bond."
"No."
"You will gain power in my realm," he whispers. "Enough to find the child. Enough to walk unharmed among shadows. Enough to reclaim what is yours."
I shake violently. "You're lying to trap me."
His black eyes soften with something like longing.
"I am giving you a path," he says.
"Through me. With me. As my bride."
My chest aches. My lungs burn.
"And if I refuse?"
His voice becomes quiet.
Flat.
Unyielding.
"Then your child will remain where she wandered. And the Boundary Land does not keep children safe."
A cold wind sweeps through the hallway.
Distant cries rise from the dark.
The walls stretch, distorting.
Something crawls across the ceiling, too fast to identify.
The groom watches me—never blinking, never breathing, never moving unless he chooses.
"You cannot reach her without me," he says softly.
"And she cannot survive without you."
His shadow stretches toward mine, long fingers reaching out.
"Choose."
My throat tightens.
"Choose me," he says, almost pleading.
"Choose us."
"Choose her safety."
My vision blurs with tears.
My daughter's face flashes in my mind—smiling, alive, bright.
Her small hand in mine.
Her laughter.
Her warmth.
I swallow a scream.
"What do you want?" I whisper.
His voice melts into something reverent.
"A vow. A bond. A union. A ceremony unbroken."
He takes my hand gently, coldly.
"My claim."
My pulse pounds in my ears.
"Give yourself to me," he says, "and I will give you back your child."
Everything inside me fractures—fear, rage, desperation, love.
He steps closer.
"Say yes," he murmurs.
I choke.
And whisper—
"I can't."
Not yes.
Not no.
Just the truth.
His face stills.
The world freezes with him.
Everything in the corridor holds its breath.
Then, slowly, his expression shifts—into something ancient, hollow, dangerous.
"You will," he whispers.
He steps back into the dark, his shadow dragging behind him like a torn veil.
"When your love becomes unbearable. When your fear chokes you. When your heart breaks from longing…"
His voice fades.
"You will come to me."
The lights flicker once—twice—
He dissolves.
Gone.
Leaving only silence…
and the hair clip in my shaking hand.
And a single truth sinking into my bones:
To save my daughter,
I may have to sacrifice myself.
--