Night fell quietly in the hospital.
The machines breathed with me; the walls hummed softly, alive with other people's pain.
Beside my bed, the cradle rocked gently with the rhythm of a dream.
My daughter—her daughter—slept, her tiny mouth parting with each breath.
Every time I looked at her, something inside me stung.
A longing that wasn't mine.
A love too old to belong to this new life.
I had learned everyone's names by now.
The nurses, the friends, the husband who smiled like he'd been given a second chance.
He called me his angel when he thought I was asleep.
He kissed my wrist like a vow.
I wanted to believe him.
But whenever his lips touched my skin, I felt a flicker of wrongness—like this body remembered something my mind did not.
And then the whisper began again.
At first, I thought it was a dream.
But dreams don't feel like someone sitting beside you, breathing the same air.
"Can you hear me?" the voice asked.
It was soft, barely a sound—more like a thought that trembled.
When I closed my eyes, I saw her.
A woman in white.
Her hair long and pale, her eyes half-shadow.
She stood in a place that looked like mist and water, where the ground shimmered with memory.
"Who are you?" I whispered, though I didn't move my lips.
Her answer came gently, like a lullaby.
"I'm the one who lived here before you."
The air shifted. I felt it—the ache behind her smile.
She looked around, as if seeing her old world through my eyes.
"I died when she was born," she said, nodding toward the baby.
"My heart stopped before I could hold her. I thought that was the end. But then... you came."
Her voice faltered. "You were broken, weren't you?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
She stepped closer, her hand hovering just above mine.
"It's strange," she whispered. "I thought I'd be angry. But when I felt your soul—so tired, so quiet—I couldn't be."
We sat in silence for what felt like hours.
Between us, the baby sighed in her sleep, and somehow that sound held the whole world together.
Finally, she spoke again.
"I think we're connected. Like threads tied between two ends of the same story."
"Red threads?" I asked.
She smiled faintly. "Yes. Red threads of fate, maybe. The ones that pull even when you try to let go."
Her gaze softened. "Do you miss them? The ones from before?"
I swallowed hard.
"I don't know. I think... I left them before they could miss me."
She nodded. "Then maybe it's better this way."
The next day, when I woke, I found a letter folded beneath the blanket.
It was in my handwriting—hers—but I had never written it.
If you're reading this, then I didn't survive.
But you... whoever you are... please love them. Please love her.
The ink had smudged in places, like it had been written through tears.
I pressed the paper to my chest and cried without knowing whose tears they were.
That night, she came again.
The same mist, the same soft space where we met.
But this time, she looked lighter—brighter, almost translucent.
"I'll fade soon," she said. "You're getting stronger, and I'm starting to let go."
"No," I said quickly. "Don't go. I don't know how to do this alone."
Her smile trembled.
"You do. You've done it all your life."
She looked at me, really looked.
"You've been punished for being kind, and no one ever said sorry. Let this life be the one that loves you back."
Her words cut deep, gentle and cruel at once.
I wanted to ask her name, but it felt wrong.
It was my name now.
"Will I see you again?"
She looked toward the cradle, where the baby's cry echoed faintly across the dream.
"When she laughs," she said, "that's me saying hello."
Then she faded into the light.
I woke with sunlight on my face and the sound of my daughter's giggle.
For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming.
But when I looked down at her, she was smiling—bright, toothless, alive.
And from somewhere deep inside my chest, a voice whispered one last time—
You're home now.