I froze. The voice wasn’t mine, and it wasn’t my husband’s. My heart pounded as I crept to the nursery door. Michael’s cries stopped, and the silence that followed was worse than any scream.
I pushed the door open just enough to peek inside. The rocking chair was moving — slowly, rhythmically — but no one was sitting in it. My son lay in his crib, calm and quiet, staring upward with wide, unblinking eyes as though he was watching someone I couldn’t see.
I rushed to him, scooped him up, and whispered, “Who’s here?” My voice cracked in the stillness. The chair stopped moving instantly. The air turned cold, and I swear I heard a faint whisper: “Don’t worry. He’s never alone.”
I stumbled back, clutching Michael, my legs shaking. No one was there, but the scent of lavender — my late mother’s favorite perfume — lingered in the room.
Now I don’t know if I’m terrified… or comforted.
