The Locked Nursery

The crying started again, just after midnight. Faint. Thin. I had heard it every night for the past thirty days, ever since I came home from the hospital without my baby. I pushed back the sheets. A quick turn still pulled at the ache low in my body, and my legs felt stiff before my feet touched the floor. Beside me, Zane slept on his back, breathing evenly, his face loose and peaceful in the moonlight. I crossed the cold marble floor and followed the whimper down the hall. The sound stayed faint but steady until I reached the last room. As always, it ended at the nursery. I had chosen that white oak door months ago and spent weeks deciding on its brass handle. Now the handle was gone. Zane had replaced it with a military-grade fingerprint scanner, black metal and glass with one red light. This was a room in the house my parents had bought for me. My home. And I was locked out. I pressed my fingers to the scanner. Zane had never asked before installing it. *ACCESS DENIED.* “Chloe, darling. What are you doing up?” I spun around too fast and caught myself against the wall. Zane stood a few feet away in a loosely tied silk robe. He sounded concerned, but he did not look at my face. His eyes went first to my hand, then to the red light on the scanner. “I heard it again.” I pointed at the door. “The crying. It’s coming from in there.” He sighed, closed the space between us and wrapped both arms around my shoulders. His chest was warm against my cheek. For one second, I let myself lean into him and remember the man who had sat beside my hospital bed. “My love, we’ve talked about this,” he murmured into my hair. “Dr. Evans said there would be auditory hallucinations. It’s the trauma. Your mind is playing tricks on you.” “No.” I tried to pull away. His arms tightened. “It was real this time.” “Of course it felt real.” He turned me toward our bedroom. “That’s what makes it so cruel. You have to trust me, Chloe. There are only empty boxes in there.” He sat me on the edge of the bed, then went straight to the nightstand. The white pill was already waiting beside a full glass of water. My sedative. Dr. Evans had raised the dose every week, and Zane never let me take it alone. “I don’t want it.” The pills made everything slow, even grief. “Please, Chloe. For me.” He knelt in front of me and raised the glass. “You always make that face before anything bitter. Take a sip first.” I opened my mouth. He set the pill on my tongue and tipped the water toward my lips. He kept the glass there until he saw me swallow. “Good girl,” he whispered, stroking my cheek. He lowered me onto the pillows and tucked the sheet around my shoulders. The heaviness began behind my eyes and spread through my arms. When he leaned over to kiss my forehead, the collar of his robe brushed my nose. Under his cologne and our sharp laundry detergent, another smell clung to the silk, faint enough that I almost missed it. Baby powder. My pulse kicked hard. The crying had come through a military-grade lock, and my husband had brought the smell of a baby back to our bed. I let my eyes close. Behind that door, somewhere in my house, a baby was alive.