Emily did not sleep that night.
The house around her went silent one room at a time, settling into the soft hush of night. Leo had been checked three times, each time sleeping peacefully, unaware of the storm gathering around him. Alexander lingered in the doorway for hours, waiting for her to call him back, waiting for her to soften, to crumble, to cry, to rage. But she never did.
Emily was far beyond tears.
She sat at the long table in the private study, the strands of Leo's blonde hair lying at the center like a sacred relic. The lamp cast a warm, golden ring around her, but she felt nothing but cold.
The type of cold that settled into the bones and turned into purpose.
She stared at the strands, then at the music box beside them — polished wood, delicate craftsmanship, innocent in appearance. The lullaby had stopped hours ago, but she could still hear its warped melody threading through her mind like a cracked nursery rhyme.
A mother's nightmare.
