Jun woke to the sound of a heartbeat. Not his own.
*Thump-thump. Thump-thump.*
He sat up, breath thick in his chest. He wasn't outside anymore. Or maybe he never had been. The world around him had shifted again—now he stood in a hospital corridor lost to time, the kind with green-tiled floors, flickering bulbs, and doors that never quite closed.
The air was warm, but not comforting. It was *humid with memory.*
At the far end of the hallway, an old intercom buzzed to life.
> "Attention: visitor Jun dela Cruz. Please report to Maternity Room 3. The child is waiting."
His mouth went dry.
Jun walked slowly past open rooms. Each one staged like an echo. A rocking chair moved on its own. IV lines dripped red into empty cribs. Monitors flickered with no heartbeat.
He reached Maternity Room 3. The door creaked open by itself.
Leah wasn't there.
Only a single metal table in the center, draped with a white sheet. The walls around it pulsed—breathing in sync with that same *heartbeat*. Inside the sheeted bundle… something moved.
"Please no," Jun whispered.
He stepped closer. The sheet fell away.
Not a baby.
A tape recorder.
It clicked on.
> *"Will the child be complete?"*
> *"Will they be normal?"*
> *"Was it your fault?"*
Jun staggered back as the voices piled over each other—Leah's voice, his mother's voice, his own. They filled the room, clawed at the walls. One whispered, low and sharp:
> *"You should've made her wait. You rushed everything. And now it's too late."*
He covered his ears and screamed.
Then—*silence.*
When he opened his eyes, the table was gone. In its place stood a mobile crib… gently rocking. Inside: light. Not blinding, but warm. Soft. Like moonlight under water.
He stepped closer. No child. Just a card taped to the blanket.
> *"This space is what you give it. Fear or love. Choose wisely."*
Behind him, the door opened. Leah stood there, her eyes gentle, tired.
"I couldn't find you," she said. "Are you okay?"
He couldn't answer. He didn't know yet.
Leah walked to the crib, placed her hand over the blanket. "I heard something in the walls. Not a voice. Just… doubt."
Jun nodded slowly.
She looked up at him, as if reading him from the inside out. "You don't have to be perfect, Jun. Just present."
Something inside his chest cracked. Not pain—release.
He reached for her hand.
From somewhere in the hospital, a lullaby began. Off-key. Broken. But it played.
The lights dimmed. The heartbeat slowed.
And the fog waited.