The flicker of the candles barely lit the small room. A mother caressed her baby’s face— It was cold.
The mother stared longingly into the child’s eyes, hoping it would wake. The baby had never gotten so sick before; the child had never felt so cold.
She told herself that sickness was normal.
She told herself that it would pass.
The woman kneeled, tucking the baby into the crib. Shifting the child, the woman made sure that the neckline of the child’s dress didn’t choke them.
The baby’s knitted clothes contrasted its even, dark, skin. Curls, soft and carefully done, framed the child’s face. The mother rocked the baby, imagining its tears.
The child did not stir.
In the midst of her care, the door opened slowly. A man in all black approached the woman.
“Marianne,” the man spoke somberly,”Don’t you think it’s time to let the child rest?”
“She’s so cold, Henry. What kind of mother would I be if I left her?” Her tone was cruel, and Henry could sense his presence was unwanted. He only moved closer, his hand softly resting on his wife’s shoulder.
“The child will be fine, Mari. You are the one I worry about. You’re sick, and if you keep going like this-“
“Don’t.” She cuts him off, body tensing. “I will not abandon my child. Go, if you must. I’m staying here.”
“If you stay in here any longer, you will hurt the child.” Henry spoke sternly.
Marianne noticed that her grip on the child had tightened. She squeezed its shoulders, the fabric twisting uncomfortably. Marianne gasped, dropping her hands and smoothing out the sheets.
“My baby, my baby. I’m sorry darling, I’m sorry..” She spoke quietly and apologized to the child, stroking its cheeks.
“Mari… come rest dear. It has been days since anyone saw you.” Henry coaxed, rubbing Marianne’s shoulders.
“Yes,” The woman finally agreed. “Charlotte will be okay. She will be okay.” Mari got up from the ground. She stumbled out of the room, presumably heading to her own. Henry closed the door behind his wife. Satisfied, Henry approached the child with a stern gaze. He noted the torn stitching, the tear stains on its skin, the fraying hair.
He took out a lighter, the flickers of the flames illuminating the child— and dropped it in the crib.
As the flames engulfed their cotton limbs, their empty eyes staring onward, the child did not stir.