The house was wrapped in a fragile stillness, the kind that arrives only after a long day filled with worry and whispered prayers. Outside, the late spring breeze stirred the curtains softly, and somewhere in the distance, a night bird's lonely call echoed through the quiet.
Inside her room, Alice lay beneath a heavy quilt, curled up like a tiny seed ready to bloom again. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the fever she had fought and finally beaten, but the exhaustion lingered in her every breath. Her small hands gripped tightly to her beloved stuffed rabbit—its fur threadbare from years of comfort and countless tears.
The soft yellow light from the bedside lamp painted gentle shadows on the walls, wrapping the room in a warm glow that felt like a sanctuary away from all the pain and uncertainty.
Elvin sat quietly in the chair beside her bed, watching her chest rise and fall with the slow, even rhythm of peaceful sleep. For so many nights, he had stood guard over her, his heart aching with the weight of the responsibility he bore—and the love he tried to keep buried deep inside.
His fingers absentmindedly traced slow, soothing circles on the back of her hand, careful not to disturb her rest. The silence between them was comfortable yet filled with unspoken emotions: grief, hope, fear, and the fragile beginnings of something new.
His eyes drifted toward the small music box sitting on the shelf above her bed. It was an old keepsake, a gift from her mother before the accident, but it had been silent for months. The delicate tune it played now felt like a memory lost in time—like the lullabies Alice had never heard.
Elvin swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making his throat tight. For all his years commanding troops in battle, nothing had prepared him for this—watching a little girl, so fragile and brave, fight through pain and loss he could barely put into words.
He leaned forward, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Alice's damp forehead. "Alice…" His voice was soft, tentative, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the delicate peace. "Would you like me to sing you a lullaby?"
Alice's eyes fluttered open slowly. They were still heavy, rimmed with pink from tears and fever, but she gave him a small, trusting nod. Her lips curved into a faint smile that made his heart ache and soar all at once.
"I never sang to your mother," Elvin confessed, voice rough with emotion. "I was always afraid… afraid I wouldn't be good enough."
She blinked up at him, her gaze filled with quiet understanding. "You don't have to be perfect," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He smiled, a little shaky, and cleared his throat. Then, closing his eyes, he began to hum—low and tentative at first, but growing steadier with each note. It wasn't a professional melody or a practiced tune. It was simple, imperfect, and born from the depths of his heart.
Softly, Elvin's voice broke the silence:
"Hush now, my little star,
Close your eyes wherever you are.
Dream of skies so wide and blue,
I'm always here watching you."
The words were nothing fancy, but the way he sang them—gently cradling her in his voice—felt like the warmest embrace Alice had ever known. Her eyelids drifted closed, and a peaceful calm settled over her face.
Elvin watched every breath, every flutter of her lashes, the faintest twitch of a smile on her lips. For the first time in a long time, he felt something he hadn't dared hope for—a fragile sense of peace.
The lullaby continued, his voice barely above a whisper now, the notes floating softly through the quiet room. Each line was a promise: that she would never be alone, that she was loved beyond words, that no darkness could ever touch her while he was near.
"Sleep through the night so deep and calm,
Safe in my heart, sheltered from harm.
No shadows will come, no fear will stay,
I'm here, my love, come what may."
The music box sat untouched, but its spirit seemed alive again, carried in the warmth of the song and the steady beat of two hearts bound by love and loss.
Elvin's voice cracked once, twice—small imperfections that only made the moment more real. But he didn't stop. He sang until Alice's breathing deepened and softened, until the soft rise and fall of her chest told him she had slipped into a dreamless sleep.
Carefully, he let go of her hand, but his eyes never left her. He leaned back in his chair, chest tight with emotions too complex to name—relief, love, sorrow, and a fierce determination to protect this little girl who had become his whole world.
He thought of the lullabies she had never heard, the nights she had cried herself to sleep alone, the years of silence between them. And he vowed quietly to himself that from this night on, there would be more songs, more whispered promises, more gentle moments like this.
Because Alice deserved more than pain.
She deserved to grow up wrapped in warmth and love—lullabies to carry her through the darkest nights and a guardian who would never let her fall.
Outside, the breeze whispered through the trees, and the house settled into the peaceful rhythm of the night.
Inside, the lullaby lingered, soft as a heartbeat, a promise sung in the quiet glow of a father's love.