The Blind Mother's Embrace

The little girl, Elara, knew her mother by touch, by scent, by the gentle lull of her whispered lullabies. Every night, without fail, her mother would visit her in her dreams. Not a vivid, bustling dream, but a soft, warm cocoon where she would be cradled in her mother’s lap, her tiny head resting against a familiar, comforting chest. Her mother’s hands, impossibly soft, would stroke her hair, trace patterns on her back. And even though Elara never saw her face in these dreams – it was always shrouded in a gentle, hazy darkness – she knew, with an innocent certainty, that these were her mother's hands, her mother's scent of lavender and old books, her mother's soothing voice.

> “My sweet girl,” her mother would murmur in the dream, her voice a melody of pure love.
“Always my brave little star.”



Elara would wake up feeling cherished, a warmth spreading through her little body that lingered long after the dream faded. She would skip down the stairs, eager to see her mother in the waking world, to share stories of the dream world. But every morning, she would find only her father, Marcus, in the kitchen, meticulously preparing her breakfast.

> “Good morning, Daddy!” she’d chirp, climbing onto her chair.
“Mommy visited me again last night!”



Marcus would freeze, his hand hovering over the cereal box. A shadow would fall over his kind eyes, a deep, unnameable sadness. He’d force a smile, a little too tight, a little too quick.

> “Did she, sweetie? That’s nice.”



He never engaged further, always steering the conversation to her school, her toys, anything but her mother. Elara, being only six, didn’t quite understand the shift in his demeanor, but she sensed the discomfort. So, she stopped talking about her dream mother at the breakfast table.

But the dreams continued, growing richer, more detailed. In her dreams, her mother was always gentle, but there was a quiet solemnity about her, a stillness that was not quite normal. Elara noticed her mother never seemed to look directly at her, or at anything else for that matter. Her gaze, if one could call it that through the haze, was always inward, or distant. It was as if her eyes, though present, saw nothing.

One morning, after a particularly vivid dream where her mother had held her close, humming a tune Elara had never heard before but felt deep in her soul, she decided she had to know more. She walked into the kitchen, her little brow furrowed with serious questions.

> “Daddy,” she began, her voice small but determined, “what does Mommy look like? What color are her eyes?”



Marcus dropped the spatula. It clattered loudly against the tiled floor. He knelt down, taking her small hands in his. His face was pale, drawn.

> “Elara,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “we’ve talked about this. Your mother… she’s not with us anymore.”



Elara frowned.

> “But she is! She visits me every night. She holds me. She sings to me.”



His eyes, full of unshed tears, searched hers.

> “Honey, your mommy… she died when you were just a baby. She never got to hold you, not really. Not like that.”



Elara shook her head, tears welling in her own eyes.

> “No! That’s not true! She holds me tight. Her hands are so soft.”
She lifted her hands, demonstrating.
“And she smells like lavender. And her eyes are… well, I can’t see them, but they feel like they’re closed. Like she’s sleeping, but talking.”



Marcus's face crumpled. He pulled her into a tight embrace, burying his face in her hair. Elara could feel his body shaking.

> “Oh, my brave little star,” he choked out, the same words her dream mother used.
“Your mommy… she was blind, Elara. She never saw you. Not with her eyes.”



The words hit Elara like a physical blow. Blind. Her mother was blind. That explained why she never saw her, why her eyes in the dream felt distant and unseeing. A shiver, not of cold, but of something far more unsettling, ran down her spine. If her mother was blind, and she died when Elara was a baby, and never truly held her… then who was holding her in her dreams? Who was whispering those tender words?

That night, Elara dreaded going to sleep. The thought of the dream mother, her unseen face, her impossibly soft, blind touch, filled her with a new, creeping dread. She pulled her blanket up to her chin, her eyes wide open in the dark.

She fought sleep for hours, but eventually, exhaustion claimed her. She slipped into the familiar dreamscape. The gentle darkness. The comforting scent of lavender. The soft hands reaching for her.

She felt herself being lifted, placed in the familiar lap. The warmth spread, just as it always did. But this time, it felt different. Heavier. More cloying.

> “My sweet girl,” the voice murmured, close to her ear.
It was the same loving voice, yet now, it held an edge of something… possessive. Something hungry.



Elara tensed. She remembered her father’s words: “She never got to hold you, not really.”

> “Who are you?” Elara whispered in the dream, her voice trembling.



The hands stroking her hair paused. The gentle humming stopped. A cold silence descended.

Then, the voice, now clearer, colder, and impossibly close, responded. Not with the tender words of a mother, but with a chilling, raw desperation.

> "Your mother, little star. The one who never held you."



The hands on her back began to press harder, almost painfully, pulling her closer, enveloping her. The scent of lavender was still there, but now it was mixed with a faint, cloying sweetness, like decaying flowers.

Elara felt the familiar warmth turn into a burning chill. She tried to pull away, to escape the embrace, but the hands held her fast, impossibly strong for such softness. She tried to see her mother’s face, to pierce the hazy darkness that always veiled it. And as she strained, the darkness seemed to thin, to swirl, revealing not a face, but something else.

Two empty sockets, where eyes should have been, stared out from the hazy void. Not closed. Not distant. Just… empty. And from those empty spaces, a deep, silent yearning seemed to emanate, a profound, aching hunger for the touch it had been denied in life.

Elara gasped in the dream, a silent scream of terror. The embrace tightened, squeezing the breath from her lungs. The blind mother, denied the warmth of her child in life, was now claiming it in death, consuming it, absorbing it. Elara felt herself being drawn deeper, swallowed by the cold, possessive love.

She woke with a sudden, violent jolt, gasping for air. Her room was dark, silent, and blessedly empty. She sat bolt upright in bed, her body trembling, her heart pounding. The scent of lavender, faint but unmistakable, lingered in the air around her.

She scrambled out of bed, ran to her father's room, and pounded on the door. When he opened it, sleepy-eyed and concerned, she flung herself into his arms, sobbing hysterically.

> “She’s not Mommy, Daddy!” she cried, clutching his shirt.
“She’s not Mommy! She… she’s blind, and she wants to keep me!”



Marcus held her close, stroking her hair, the same way her dream mother had. But this time, Elara didn't feel safe. She felt the lingering chill of a love that was not love, of an embrace that wanted to consume. And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to her core, that the blind mother would be back tonight, reaching for the child she had never truly held, seeking to make up for a lifetime of lost touch.

> And next time, she might not let go.