other rooms to fill.
In their new home, smaller and warmer, Julian installed no indoor cameras. The nursery door had no lock. On the wall above the crib, Mara painted moons by hand, imperfect and soft-edged, each one slightly different.
One evening, while Lila slept in a yellow onesie, Julian found Mara standing in the doorway, watching their daughter breathe.
“Are you afraid?” he asked gently.
Mara considered lying. Old habits rose easily. Smile. Soften. Protect everyone from discomfort.
Then she looked at him.
“Sometimes.”
Julian nodded. “Tell me when.”
Mara leaned her shoulder against the frame.
“Now.”
He did not rush to touch her. He did not explain the fear away. He did not promise that nothing bad would ever happen again, because both of them knew promises like that were often made by people who wanted silence more than truth.
Instead, he stood beside her in the warm hallway glow, close enough to stay, far enough to let her breathe.
After a while, Mara reached for his hand.
Inside the nursery, Lila stirred, stretched one tiny fist above her head, and settled again.
The door remained open.
