She’s sitting upright, legs folded, shoulders curved protectively around Mateo, who is pressed skin-to-skin against her chest.
Her robe is open just enough for the baby to feel warmth, and her hand supports his back with the tenderness of someone holding a secret.
Samuel is asleep in his crib, tiny fists relaxed, breathing smooth.
Mateo isn’t screaming.
For the first time in what feels like forever, he’s quiet.
Lina rocks slowly, barely moving, like she’s afraid the world will punish her if she makes too much noise.
And then you hear it, faint through the audio, soft as a prayer.
A melody, hummed under her breath.
A lullaby you know down to the bones.
Aurelia’s lullaby.
A song she composed in the hospital when she was still alive, when hope still lived in the corners of that sterile room.
It was never recorded, never shared, never sung for anyone but your sons.
Nobody should know it.
Nobody.
Your hand tightens around the tablet so hard your knuckles ache.
Your mind scrambles for explanations, all of them failing.
Lina’s humming doesn’t sound like imitation.
It sounds like memory.
It sounds like she’s carrying something sacred.
You lean closer as if your body can crawl into the screen.
Mateo’s tiny chest rises and falls against her, regulated, calm, like her heartbeat is teaching his how to behave.
Your suspicion starts to crumble, not into relief, but into confusion so sharp it almost hurts worse than anger.
Because if Lina knows this song, it means your world contains doors you didn’t even know existed.
And in a house built of glass, hidden doors are the most terrifying thing of all.
Then the nursery door opens.
The feed shows the handle turning slowly, careful, as if whoever is entering doesn’t want to wake the babies.
Clara steps inside, wrapped in a silk robe that looks too luxurious for a late-night “check.”
She glances toward Lina, then toward the cribs, and her mouth tightens with annoyance.
In her hand is a small silver dropper, the kind you’ve seen in medical kits.
She moves not toward Mateo, the “sick” twin everyone worries about, but toward Samuel, the healthy one.
She reaches for a bottle sitting on the side table and uncaps it with practiced ease.
Your lungs forget how to work.
She tilts the dropper and squeezes.
A clear liquid threads into the milk like it belongs there.
She doesn’t hesitate.
She doesn’t flinch.
This is not a mistake.
This is routine.
