Chapter 28
"Help me."
It wasn't a voice in the air—it was in the walls, in the roots, in the marrow of the house that once burned and now breathed again. The cradle sat in the center of the room like an altar, wrapped in vines slick with memory.
And in it—something not quite a child.
Half-formed. Pale as bone. Crying without tears.
Lila staggered back, clutching the frame of the door. Her throat tightened. The cry wasn't human. But it wasn't inhuman either.
It sounded like Henry when he used to cry in his sleep.
It sounded like her own voice when she buried their mother alone.
It sounded like everything she had tried to forget—and failed.
—
Olivia stood by the candlelight.
But she wasn't Olivia anymore.
Not flesh. Not even bone.
Just memory stitched together by grief.
A spirit that still bore her shape, her voice, but moved like a thought—flinching with every emotion Lila tried to suppress.
"She's not alive," Lila whispered.
"No," Olivia said. "But neither are you."
Lila shook her head. "Don't do this."
"I'm not doing anything," Olivia murmured. "I'm only here because you remembered me."
The room pulsed—walls bleeding shadow.
The cradle moaned.
And from within it, the thing cried again.
—
Suddenly, they were outside.
Not truly.
Just memory.
Just the field again—green and trembling with thunder. The air smelled like summer and ash. The ground was damp beneath her bare feet.
Lila was nine.
Henry's hand was in hers.
They were laughing.
Chasing something bright.
Then—
A sound.
A fissure.
The earth splitting open, not violently, but like a breath held too long. And then the voice, softer than wind:
"Feed me."
Only Olivia heard it.
Only Olivia walked into the dark.
—
"You fed her," Lila said aloud, eyes stinging. "That day. You started all this."
"I didn't know what I was feeding," Olivia's spirit murmured. "It asked for love. It tasted loss. And it never forgot the difference."
Lila turned back to the cradle.
Inside, the baby had changed.
A mockery of Henry's face now stared up at her.
His eyes—but too wide. His mouth—but sewn at the corners with hair-fine roots. Like someone tried to remember him and got the pieces all wrong.
She fell to her knees.
"No," she whispered. "No, this isn't real."
"It's grief," Olivia said. "Made flesh. Because you wouldn't bury him."
"I did bury him!"
"No. You ran. You kept running. You kept him here—held in every memory, every scream you swallowed. And now he's become something else."
—
The wind shifted.
The baby stopped crying.
It began to smile.
Not a joyful smile. Not even human.
A stretch of memory over teeth.
The vines around the cradle pulsed, began to grow—sliding toward Lila like fingers reaching for warmth.
She crawled backward, breath shallow.
"I want to forget," she said. "I want to forget everything."
"Then she wins," Olivia whispered. "The Mother feeds on forgetting."
Lila sobbed. "Then what do I do?"
"Remember," said Olivia.
"Remember what?"
"His last words."
—
Lila closed her eyes.
The fire.
The smoke.
The moment Henry looked at her as his body broke apart.
The pain—ripped from his throat.
The words barely formed:
"You were the only home I ever had."
Lila opened her eyes.
The baby looked at her—still wrong, still awful—but the smile had faded.
The roots around the cradle paused.
And then—
She saw him.
Not the baby.
But Henry.
Just for a second.
Beside the cradle.
Not in pain.
Just… waiting.
She reached for him.
And he stepped back.
Because it wasn't time.
Because remembering him wasn't enough.
She had to let go.
—
Lila stood.
She looked at the cradle.
She looked at Olivia.
And she stepped back.
Not away from the child—but away from the past.
And as she did, the cradle began to burn.
Silently.
Brightly.
Like a memory given back to the world.
The spirit of Olivia watched, her form flickering.
"I'm fading," she said.
"I know," Lila whispered. "Thank you for staying."
"Will you remember me?" Olivia asked.
Lila didn't speak.
She just nodded.
—
Outside, the stars began to return.
Faint. Distant.
But there.
And in the dark behind her, the house finally exhaled.
And the cry ceased.
Not because it had been silenced.
But because it had finally been heard.