There was a soft, gentle singing coming from a woman who was sitting near a sleeping baby in a crib.
As I stood by the entrance to my apartment, still holding onto the handle. The song was very low pitched, almost tender. The baby was lying quietly in the crib; his face appeared completely untroubled, as though he’d never experienced anything in this world before.
This was my home. It felt like that because of how you know your dreams are yours. Without being able to show proof or to doubt. But yet none of what existed inside those walls belonged to me.
She turned.
With a quiet confidence her eyes locked onto mine. And for some reason her expression seemed to drain all of the life from me. I attempted to say something — but the words wouldn’t take shape. Not even my name felt close enough to be called my own — it felt as though someone had taken it away from me and put it somewhere so far out of reach.
A shiver went down my spine. My attention couldn’t stay focused.
She smiled slowly, then gave a little wink.
And then she looked beyond me — towards the door.
It opened with a long creaky groan.
At first, I thought she was releasing me.
I woke up in my bed, taking shallow breaths. The darkness was closing in around me. My bedroom was just as I had left it. Still. Unchanged.
But something remained.
I lay there, waiting to hear something — until I did:
Softly. Steadily.
A woman singing somewhere in my apartment.