Helga sat in the solitary nursery, shifting the weight of the infant against her shoulder. The room was wrong-too cold and quiet-but her medication made the edges soft, turned the steel walls into something she could almost pretend was plaster, the harsh overheads into afternoon sun through lace curtains she remembered from before.
Damon did not squirm or cry; he simply stared up at her with piercing gold eyes that held a cold, calculating emptiness. He never blinked. Not when she sang, or wept, not when she screamed at ghosts who weren't there. He simply watched, cataloging her like she was data to be stored, processed, used later for purposes she couldn't comprehend.
She rose slowly, carrying the unblinking child across the floor to the sink that wasn't there. Her fingers wrapped aroun
