The moment the door slams shut behind me, the air inside the room thickens—dense, humid, and suffocating, like the breath of something alive pressing against my skin.
I freeze.
Because I know this room.
Oh God.
I know this room too well.
It looks like a hospital suite, but not like the one I entered in the Corridor of Memories. This one is older—darker—stained with time and shadow. The overhead light flickers weakly, its glow barely enough to illuminate the cracked tiles beneath my shoes.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
My throat tightens until I can't breathe.
For a moment, everything in me wants to run back through the door, to slam it shut, to scream for someone—anyone—to let me out.
But the door has no handle.
No hinges.
No seam.
It's simply gone.
The shadows pulse around me, thickening, whispering, curling against the walls. And then—slowly, like a camera lens focusing—a single object emerges in the center of the room.
A bassinet.
White.
Clean.
Perfectly still.
Except it shouldn't be here.
It shouldn't exist.
But it does.
My knees go weak.
"No…" I whisper, my voice hollow. "Not you. Not again."
A soft rattle comes from the bassinet, like something shifting under a blanket, and goosebumps crawl up my arms. I step closer—one foot, then another—my legs shaking so badly I can barely walk.
The blanket is the same one from that night.
Pale yellow.
Covered with cartoon bees.
Too bright for what it held.
Too cheerful.
Too cruel.
"I don't want to do this," I whisper. "I don't want to see this. Please—just let me find my daughter."
The room doesn't answer.
Rooms like this don't need to.
This place was designed to break me.
I reach the bassinet.
The blanket moves.
My breath catches, collapsing in my throat. I pinch the edge of the fabric between my fingers. My hand trembles so violently the blanket shakes.
"Jenny."
I freeze.
The voice behind me isn't the ghost husband's.
It's not my daughter's.
It's my voice.
My voice from the past.
"Jenny," Past Me whispers again, shaky and terrified, "don't look."
But I already am.
I pull the blanket back.
And there she is.
My first baby.
My tiny daughter.
Her face blue and still.
Her limbs curled delicately, like she's sleeping but never will again.
My vision blurs instantly. Tears hit the bassinet, splattering on the blanket.
I choke back a scream—one I've been holding for years, buried under motherhood and survival and denial.
"No," I weep. "Oh God—no—no—please—"
But she doesn't move.
She never moved.
Not then.
Not ever.
My fingers hover above her cheek, afraid to touch, afraid to break, afraid to fall apart so completely that nothing remains to put back together.
"This isn't real," I whisper. "This isn't her. She's gone. She's gone. She's gone."
But grief answers louder than truth.
Because as I stare at her tiny body, everything from that night crashes back into me with brutal clarity:
The sudden silence.
No cry.
No breath.
The nurses whispering quietly.
The doctor shaking his head.
My own body bleeding, shaking, collapsing into panic.
The smell of antiseptic mixing with something metallic and wrong.
The moment they placed her in my arms.
Heavy.
Cold.
Gone.
My chest caves in. I crumble forward, hands gripping the edge of the bassinet so hard my knuckles turn white.
"I am so sorry," I sob. "I am so, so sorry."
The air shifts.
And then—
A small hand wraps around my wrist.
My entire body jerks.
Her fingers are tiny.
Cold.
Weak.
But undeniably alive.
My breath stops.
I look down.
Slowly—impossibly—my dead baby's eyes open.
They are not the eyes she had.
These are black.
Liquid.
Shifting.
Reflecting nothing.
She stares up at me without blinking.
"Mama," she whispers.
My blood freezes.
"No," I whisper, stumbling back. "No—that's not you. You never—this isn't real. This is a trick."
But she sits up slowly, her joints cracking, her tiny body moving strangely, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.
"Mama…" her voice croaks again, deeper this time. Wrong. Too deep for an infant's throat. "Why did you leave me?"
My stomach twists violently.
"I didn't," I whisper. "I held you—I cried with you—I buried you—"
"You forgot me."
Her head tilts unnaturally sideways.
"You replaced me."
Tears pour down my face uncontrollably.
"I didn't replace you," I choke. "I never forgot you. I carried you in everything I did—I dreamed of you—I wished you were here—"
Her mouth stretches wider than a human mouth should.
"Liar."
She crawls out of the bassinet, her tiny limbs moving like broken branches, her body contorting as she drags herself across the floor toward me.
"Mama…" she hisses. "You had another baby. You moved on."
"No," I cry, backing up until I hit the doorless wall. "I didn't move on—I learned to survive—I kept living because I had to—"
She stops at my feet.
Her hands grip my ankles.
Her fingers feel like ice burning through my skin.
"You should have stayed with me," she whispers softly.
"I couldn't—"
"You should have died with me."
My breath leaves my body like someone punched through my chest.
"No," I whisper. "No—I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—but I had to keep going—I had to live—I had to find something good again—"
Her small face contorts, grief and anger folding into one expression too heavy for a baby's features.
"You left me for her."
"I NEVER LEFT YOU!" I scream, voice breaking into raw pieces. "I never forgot you—I never stopped loving you—I would have done anything to keep you—but I couldn't—I couldn't save you—I tried—I TRIED—"
She freezes.
Her hands loosen around my ankles.
And her voice changes—softening into something tiny, fragile, familiar.
"Mama… are you telling the truth?"
I drop to my knees, sobbing, and cup her cold face in my shaking hands.
"Yes," I whisper. "Yes, baby. I never stopped loving you. I will always love you, even now, even here. You were my first miracle."
Her black eyes flicker.
Once.
Twice.
Then the darkness drains from them, replaced with cloudy blue—like a hazy echo of the real color she never got the chance to show.
She reaches for me—slowly, gently—pressing her forehead to my chest.
For a moment, I hold her.
For a moment, I am whole.
Then her body begins to dissolve—softly, easily, like sand slipping through my fingers.
"Mama…" her voice whispers as it fades. "Go. Save her. Don't lose another one."
The last of her slips away.
And the room collapses.
The bassinet melts.
The walls crumble.
The shadows vanish.
The floor shatters beneath me—
and a blinding light erupts, swallowing everything.
When it fades, I am standing in the corridor again—knees weak, trembling, heart shattered but beating.
A new door materializes ahead.
The path forward.
I wipe the tears from my face, inhale shakily, and whisper:
"I'm coming for you, baby. Mama's coming."
And I walk toward the next trial.
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