2:13

It started at 2:13 in the morning.

Aria and I had made it home only a few hours earlier. She was utterly exhausted, overwhelmed by the events of the day. When we got back to her place, she collapsed into bed—straight to sleep.

I woke to the sound of sobbing.

Rushing into her room, I found Aria in the rocking chair, cradling her baby.

She looked up at me, eyes wide and tearful. “What am I doing wrong?”

I approached her slowly.

“She’s hungry—I can feel it. But she just won’t latch.”

I switched on the small lamp next to the bed. Aria flinched at the light, her face clouded with panic.

“I’m a terrible mother,” she whispered. “My baby… she’s going to starve.”

I knelt beside her, placing a hand on her knee and the other gently on her arm.

“No, Ari. You’re anything but. Baby Khora’s just sleepy, that’s all. Maybe she needs changing. Want me to try?”

Her expression darkened. She clutched her baby tighter and shook her head.

“I can do it right here, next to you,” I offered. “You can sip some water while I help. Maybe afterward she’ll want to nurse.”

“Do you really think so?”

I swallowed, unsure. “I do. Let me grab you some water, and we’ll get you both comfortable, okay?”

Aria nodded.

When she placed the swaddled baby in my arms, a wave of nausea hit me. The sadness was so deep, it twisted my stomach. Still, I cleaned the baby, rewrapped her, and handed her back—trying to restore her peace.

“Look!” Aria beamed, her color returning. “She’s nursing!”

After an hour or so, she placed the baby in the crib and crawled back into bed. I gently pushed the crib closer to her side.

“Can you stay?” she whispered. “Lay with me, please. I don’t want to be alone.”

“Absolutely.”

I climbed into bed beside her, draping an arm over hers. She tucked it under her arm, squeezing my hand. Her manic energy began to settle, but I could feel the fragility lingering beneath the calm.

When we woke, the room felt different—like life had been sucked out of it.

The silence was deafening.

Aria replayed the events of the previous day, as if they were happening again, in real time.

And this continued. For a week.

It was 2:13 in the morning when I woke to a spine-chilling scream.

The lights were already on. Aria stood at the crib, holding her baby.

“She’s not breathing! We have to go to the hospital!”

“Babies have shallow breaths,” I said gently. “Are you sure she’s not just in a deep sleep?”

“I’m sure!” she cried. “She’s heavy. Limp!”

I threw on my robe, wrapped an arm around her, and led her outside.

At the hospital, the staff hesitated. Their expressions shifted between confusion and recognition. I shot them a look—one they seemed to understand. They moved quickly.

I held Aria as they took the baby from her arms. She collapsed into me, sobbing, begging, pleading.

A nurse and I exchanged glances. I silently prayed she understood what was happening—and that the next part wouldn’t shatter Aria completely.

We were led to a private room. There, the attending doctor gently broke the news.

Baby Khora hadn’t made it.

“No,” Aria said firmly, shaking her head. “She was fine. She was alive just an hour ago.”

But that wasn’t the reality.

The attending, with quiet compassion, reminded her of what had happened a week ago. The truth:

Khora had been stillborn.

Aria had left the hospital, unable to accept it. I had been asked to stay close—to watch her carefully. She was fragile. Unstable.

The crib was real. The rocking chair was real.

But the baby... wasn’t.

A childhood doll sat in the chair. In her grief, her trauma, Aria’s mind had created a new reality.

That tiny fracture in her world was what finally let the light in.

And the healing—slow, fragile, tender—could begin.