A Nursery's Tomb.

Caldecott Hall, a grand but decaying English manor, 1938.

The nursery smelled of old wood, lavender, and secrets. It was a small room, yet it felt cavernous, the space between its occupants charged with unspoken words and the weight of shared tragedy. The air was damp from the relentless rain outside, the droplets streaking the window like veins. A lone lamp cast weak light over the room, its flickering bulb seeming to struggle against the encroaching shadows.  

Matilda sat in the rocking chair, her frame hunched, her arms wrapped protectively around a threadbare teddy bear. Her face was pale, her eyes ringed with shadows as dark as the room itself. The chair creaked faintly as she rocked, a metronome to the tension that gripped the room.  

Across from her, David paced like a caged animal, his polished shoes clicking against the wooden floor. His suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened, and his hair disheveled, betraying the unraveling of the calm, orderly façade he wore so diligently.  

Dr. Finch stood between them, her leather bag perched neatly on the edge of the small desk by the wall. She was a severe woman, her hair tightly pinned, her glasses gleaming in the dim light. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm and clinical, though tinged with exasperation.  

“We’ve been over this, Matilda,” Dr. Finch said, her words clipped. “Thomas is gone. You know that. You buried him.”  

Matilda’s head snapped up, her gaze sharp and accusing. “You don’t hear it, do you? None of you do.” Her voice was brittle, each word trembling with barely restrained fury.  

David stopped pacing, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Matilda, please. You’re scaring yourself. You’re scaring me.”  

“I’m scaring you?” she spat, her voice rising. “He is all I have left of our marriage and  I have to share with you the burden of pretending he never existed!”  

Dr. Finch adjusted her glasses, stepping forward cautiously, as though approaching a wounded animal. “This fixation isn’t helping you, Matilda. It’s exacerbating your condition.”  

“My condition?” Matilda’s laugh was sharp, echoing off the walls. “Is that what you call it? A condition? Tell me, Doctor, is grief a condition? Is love?”  

David sank into the rocking chair opposite her, burying his face in his hands. “It’s not love,” he muttered, his voice muffled. “It’s torment. For all of us.”  

“Torment?” Matilda stood abruptly, clutching the teddy bear as if it were a lifeline. “You think this is torment? Torment is waking up every day to his laughter echoing in this house. To his footsteps running down the hall. To his shadow in the corner of this room. Torment is knowing he’s here, and you’re all too blind to see him!”  

The lamp flickered again, and for a moment, the room plunged into darkness. When the light returned, it was dimmer, casting strange, elongated shadows on the walls.  

Dr. Finch stepped back, her composed demeanor faltering. “Matilda, I need you to sit down. This isn’t productive.”  

“Productive?” Matilda’s laugh was hollow. She moved to the window, pressing her palm against the cold glass. The rain distorted the view, the world outside reduced to a swirling mass of gray. “I see him out there sometimes. In the garden. Laughing. Calling my name.” She turned, her eyes glinting with a feverish light. “He’s waiting for me.”

Dr. Finch raised a hand, her voice firm but measured. “Matilda, you’re projecting your pain onto an imagined presence. It’s a symptom of—”

“Stop calling it a symptom!” Matilda shrieked, her voice cracking. She threw the teddy bear onto the floor, its lifeless form landing with a soft thud. “You’re all so eager to box me up, label me, prescribe me away.”

David looked up, his face streaked with tears. “Matilda, I’m begging you. Let this go. For us. For me.”

“For you?” Her voice dropped, low and venomous. “You buried him without me. You shoved dirt over his tiny body and told me it was for the best. For me. You stole my right to grieve!”

The lamp flickered again, and for a moment, the room plunged into darkness. When the light returned, it was dimmer, casting strange, elongated shadows on the walls.

“Matilda,” Dr. Finch said, her voice softening, “this isn’t Thomas. This is your mind, creating a reality to cope with the loss. It’s common in cases like yours—”

Matilda cut her off, advancing toward her. “Don’t you dare patronize me with your textbook theories. You don’t know him. You don’t know me.”

David rose, stepping between them. “Stop it, both of you!” His voice cracked with desperation. “This has to end.”

Matilda’s gaze shifted to him, her expression unreadable. “You want it to end, David? Then tell me you hear it.”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “I don’t hear anything, Matilda.”

The room seemed to shrink, the walls pressing inward, the air growing heavier. The faint sound of a child’s giggle broke the silence, so soft it could have been imagined.

David froze.

Dr. Finch’s eyes darted around the room, her clinical detachment cracking.

“You heard that,” Matilda whispered, her voice trembling. “You heard him.”

“No,” David said, shaking his head violently. “It’s the storm. It’s nothing.”

Matilda stepped closer to him, her face inches from his. “It’s him, David. You know it is.”

The giggle came again, louder this time, followed by the faint patter of footsteps.

Dr. Finch backed toward the door, her composure shattered. “This… this isn’t real.”

“Isn’t it?” Matilda said, her voice almost a whisper. She turned back to the corner of the room where the shadows seemed to move independently of the light. “Thomas?”

The shadow rippled, and the air grew colder. Matilda dropped to her knees, her hands outstretched. “It’s okay, baby. Mama’s here.”

David sank to the floor, his face pale, his breath shallow. “If it’s him… why can’t I see him?”

“Because you let him go,” Matilda said, her voice heavy with sorrow. “And I never did.”

The lamp flickered one last time and went out, plunging the room into darkness. The only sound was the rain, and beneath it, faint and fading, the sound of a child’s laughter.

David shook his head violently. “It’s not him.”

Silence.

“She doesn’t get to do this!” his anger began to boil.

“Dr. Finch! She doesn’t get to make me feel like I’m fucking crazy! Turn those goddamn lights back on!”  

“Who’s making you feel crazy?” Matilda whispered, stepping closer to him. “Is it me? Or is it him?”  

The air grew colder, the shadows darker. The sound of a child’s laughter—high-pitched, musical—rippled through the room. David froze, his breath catching in his throat.  

“You heard that,” Matilda said, her voice trembling.  

He couldn’t see the voice. 

“No,” David murmured. “It’s the storm. It’s nothing.”  

Matilda’s voice echoed again. “You can’t see him, David. You can’t hear him, because you let him go.”  

David’s eyes darted around the darkness, panic setting in. “What are you talking about?”  

“You buried him,” Matilda said softly, her words cutting like a knife. “You put him in the ground and pretended it was for the best. But you didn’t let him go. Not really.”  

“Stop it!” David screamed, clutching his head. “Just stop it!”  

The room dissolved around him, the walls collapsing into a swirling vortex of shadow and light. Matilda and Dr. Finch vanished, their voices echoing faintly in the void.  

When the room solidified again, it was empty. The rocking chair stood still. The teddy bear lay abandoned on the floor. The only sound was the rain.  

David staggered to his feet, his breath ragged. He turned to the window, and there, in the reflection illuminated by a single candle, he saw himself. Alone. His suit was pristine, his tie perfectly knotted, his hair neatly combed.  

Behind him, the faint outline of a child stood in the shadows, smiling.  

David closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face. “Thomas,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”  

When he opened them, the room was silent, empty. The ghost of his son had gone, leaving him alone with the unbearable weight of reality.  

Thomas had died years ago. Matilda and Dr. Finch had been figments of his fractured mind, constructs to shield him from the unbearable truth.  

David sank to the floor, clutching the teddy bear, his sobs filling the room. The storm raged on outside, a reflection of the turmoil within.  

In the end, there was only David, his grief, and the shadows that whispered of a life that might have been.