The days blurred. Hunger was no longer a sharp ache but a constant weight, dull and heavy, dragging against her bones. Leila forced herself to eat from the week’s rations, though the bread turned dry in her mouth and fruit bruised too quickly in the heat of the tower. She ate slowly, deliberately, as if she were teaching herself again what it meant to keep living.

The tower halls echoed differently now. Every step felt louder, each door creak sharper. Leila found herself pacing from room to room, running her hand along the cold stone as though it could answer her. Sometimes, to drown the silence, she hummed. Old lullabies surfaced — soft, broken notes her nanny had once sung while brushing her hair or rocking her to sleep.

At first, she hummed for herself, to feel less alone. But as the days passed, she realized she wasn’t just singing into the void. She was singing to her.

The child who waited for her every night in her dreams.

Leila began to talk to her, though no one stood in the room. “Are you hungry, little fairy?” she whispered as she broke her apple in half, setting a piece aside on the table before forcing herself to eat the rest. When she filled her cup, she glanced at the empty chair across from her as if expecting tiny hands to reach for it.

It frightened her, how naturally this madness came. But it also warmed her. The girl in her dreams was the only being who made her feel needed, wanted, loved.

That night, as sleep finally dragged her down, the dreams returned.

She was sitting in a chair in a vast chamber lit by a single guttering candle. In her arms, a bundle squirmed — her daughter, tiny fists waving as she wailed against the suffocating silence.

Leila hushed her, rocking gently. “Shh, my fairy. Mama’s here.”

Her voice cracked, her throat raw from singing the same lullaby again and again, but she did not stop. She pressed kiss after kiss to the child’s damp cheeks, inhaled the sweet scent of milk clinging to her skin, marveled at the perfect curl of her eyelashes.

The baby calmed for a moment, snuffling against her breast as she fed her. Leila cradled her close, closing her eyes as warmth filled her chest — a strange mixture of unbearable sorrow and undying love.

“My miracle,” she whispered into the soft crown of hair. “Even if the world forgets us, I will not. I will never.”

The child’s whimpers stilled, her breathing evening out in sleep. Leila rocked her for long moments, watching the rise and fall of her tiny chest. The silence of the chamber pressed in, but it no longer seemed as suffocating with the baby’s weight against her heart.

And yet…

The emptiness of the halls beyond remained deafening. She could not shake the sense that the world outside their small cocoon was a void, ready to swallow them whole.

When she woke, her arms were empty.

Leila gasped, sitting up in her bed. Her hands reached instinctively to her chest, but there was no child there. Only her racing heart.

Still, she could smell her. She could feel the ghost of tiny fingers curled against her palm. The dream clung to her skin like a second life.

She sat on the bed, trembling, then whispered into the darkness: “It’s alright, my fairy. Mama’s still here.”

Her voice cracked, but she believed it. Even awake, she carried the girl with her.

The next day, her body felt weaker. Her hands shook when she fetched water from the pitcher. When she glanced in the mirror, faint shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes. She smoothed her tangled hair back, then left it loose, too tired to braid.

She wandered the halls, humming softly. At times she caught herself swaying as if rocking an invisible child, her arms folded against her chest. She laid bread on the table and found herself breaking it in two again, one half untouched.

When evening came, she went to the rooftop. The celebration in the capital had not ended. The glow of torches and lanterns still painted the horizon, and the distant throb of drums carried on the wind. Wolves howled, voices lifted in joy. The King had found his mate, and their festival had stretched into its third day.

Leila hugged her knees and rested her chin against them. The sound carved into her heart like a knife. They celebrated endlessly, and she sat alone, clinging to a daughter who existed only in dreams.

She stayed until the wind grew sharp, then returned to her chamber. Her body folded into bed as if it had no choice. Sleep claimed her swiftly.

The dream deepened.

Her daughter was older now, perhaps two. She toddled clumsily across the stone floor, her soft laughter echoing in the chamber. Leila’s heart leapt at the sound.

She caught the girl before she stumbled, pulling her up into her arms and spinning her slowly in a circle. The child squealed with delight, her tiny fingers grabbing fistfuls of Leila’s hair.

Leila kissed her forehead, kissed her cheeks, kissed her small hands until the laughter melted into giggles. “My fairy,” she whispered. “My reason. My light.”

She lowered herself to the floor, sitting cross-legged as the child crawled into her lap. Leila brushed back her curls, humming the lullaby she had sung since the first night. The girl leaned into her, resting her head against her mother’s chest, eyes fluttering shut.

And for a moment — a brief, fragile moment — Leila felt whole.

But the chamber was still silent beyond their small circle of warmth. The halls still yawned empty, no footsteps, no voices, no father to share in the miracle of their daughter.

Leila’s smile faltered. She clutched the child tighter, pressing her cheek into her hair. “Don’t worry, my fairy,” she whispered. “Mama will always be enough. Mama will never leave you.”

But her voice trembled. She felt it even then — a weakness blooming inside her bones, the shadows beneath her eyes darkening, her breath hitching more than it should. She buried the truth in her daughter’s hair, breathing her in as if she could live on love alone.

Leila woke with tears soaking her pillow.

Her arms were empty again. The silence of the chamber was deafening.

But when she stood, she whispered softly, “Come, my fairy. Let’s wash our face.” And she carried the dream into her day, as if the little girl were still there, clinging to her skirts.