The darkness and the scent of aged pine. That is the last thing I remember of this world. That night, I woke up shivering from a nightmare, crying out for my mother. Instead of a hug, she ushered me into the velvet-lined darkness of her cello case and latched the lid. The signs had been there for a while, I suppose. It started on my fourth birthday. That was the first time she snapped—all because of the clatter of a stray toy hitting the hardwood floor. My mother was a celebrated musician. Her fingers could coax the most divine melodies from the strings, but that genius came with a price: she was hyper-sensitive to noise. Any sound that didn’t belong to her music was an intruder. There was no warning that night. No explanation. Outside the door, I heard my father’s voice, a low, hesitant plea. "Don’t scare her, honey. She’s just a child." That was the tripwire. My mother spun around, her eyes locking onto mine. The softness I used to see there—the warmth of the woman who used to tuck me in—was gone. In its place was a cold, sharp-edged resentment. I was too young to understand. I sat there, small and trembling, thinking she was just having a bad day. I thought if I stayed very still, the "real" Mommy would come back. ... The air inside the case grew heavy and hot. Every breath felt like trying to swallow wool. Through the thick wood, I could hear the muffled, haunting strains of her playing. She was practicing. I tried to scream for her, to tell her I couldn't breathe, but the sound died in my throat, becoming nothing more than a pathetic whimper. Slowly, the roar of the blood in my ears drowned out the music. My heartbeat sounded like a drum, rhythmic and terrifyingly loud. And then, the panic began to fade. I didn't feel like I was suffocating anymore; I felt light, like a balloon unmoored from its string. The piece she was playing... I recognized it. A lullaby. So gentle. So sweet. I felt sleepy. As my consciousness drifted, I looked down and saw my own body becoming translucent, a shimmer of mist against the velvet. I think... I’m actually dead. My mother’s voice finally drifted in, sharp enough to pierce the wood. "Finally! Some goddamn peace. All she does is cry—it’s like a drill in my skull." "How many times do I have to tell her? No noise. She has zero discipline!" I heard the violent zip of a bow across strings, a harsh, discordant screech. My father’s voice sounded further away, laced with a weak, crumbling hesitation. "Evelyn, enough. You’ve made your point. Don’t let her suffocate in there." "Suffocate?" Her voice spiked, dripping with disdain. "Don’t you dare play the 'good cop' now, David." "A child this bratty needs to learn. One night in there won't kill her. She needs to remember who runs this house. She needs to learn the value of silence." My father went quiet. After a long beat, I heard the heavy, defeated sigh of a man who had long ago given up his soul. "Fine. Whatever you say. Leave her be. She’ll be begging for forgiveness by morning." Even though I was dead, my soul remained anchored to that cramped, silent box. Narrow. Cold. I pressed my spectral cheek against my own cold face, pretending I was just deep in a dream. I stayed like that all night. Finally, when the gray morning light began to bleed through the cracks, my father came for me. "It’s morning," he muttered, his voice gravelly. "Time to let the kid out." "She’s probably terrified," he added, almost to himself. "Bet she won't be waking us up in the middle of the night again." He rapped his knuckles against the lid, his tone shifting to that forced, 'everything is fine' cheerfulness. "Luna? You learned your lesson? Come on out, sweetheart. Daddy’s making hot chocolate." A wave of grief washed over me. I screamed at him, thrashing my ghostly arms, desperate for him to see me. But he heard nothing. "Luna? Stop pouting. Get out here!" Still nothing. My mother walked past the door, a glass of water in her hand. She didn't even look at the case. "Let her rot in there if she wants to play games. If she wants to stay in there forever, let her." My father frowned, the first flicker of real unease crossing his face. He flipped the latches and swung the lid open. He reached in to grab my arm, but his hand recoiled when he felt the rigidity of my skin. He let out a sharp, annoyed huff. "Really? Still acting? You’re dedicated, I’ll give you that. Fine, stay stiff as a board. See who makes you breakfast." I stood beside him, watching his impatience turn to a cold sort of boredom. I tried to sniffle, tried to wipe away tears that wouldn't fall. I told myself he was just trying not to upset Mom. I told myself he still loved me. But for some reason, I really, really wanted that hot chocolate. I drifted toward the kitchen table, reaching for the steaming mug David had set down. SMASH. The mug hit the floor, shattered by my mother’s hand. White liquid splattered across the tile, mingling with jagged porcelain shards. My mother stared at the mess, her chest heaving with a sudden, inexplicable rage. "Hot chocolate? You’re actually pampering her? After what she did?" Her voice turned into a hiss. "A little stray you brought home from god-knows-where, and you treat her like royalty!" My father’s face went bone-white. He flicked a panicked look toward the hallway where my body lay, then lunged forward, grabbing her arm. His voice was a panicked whisper. "Shut up! Not so loud! We agreed—we never talk about that in front of her!" "What child? She’s a parasite! A mistake! If you hadn't been so weak-willed as to adopt that..." She was screaming now, her eyes filled with a darkness I couldn't name. But I knew she was angry. I floated toward her, reaching for her hand, wanting to soothe her, but my fingers passed through her like smoke. "Enough!" My father’s shout made me jump. The veins in his neck were bulging. "She is... she is our daughter! Not a mistake! Calm down, Evelyn!" "Our daughter?" A jagged, hysterical laugh broke from her throat as tears began to stream down her face. "What difference does it make? She isn't mine! She isn't my Luna! If my Luna were still here..." She suddenly collapsed, clutching her head and sobbing into her knees. My father exhaled, his body sagging with exhaustion. He knelt beside her, pulling her into a weary embrace, shushing her. "Okay, okay. We won't talk about it. I know you miss her... I know..." I stood there, frozen in the center of the kitchen. I wasn't their daughter? Why did she call me a mistake? Was there... was there another Luna? I looked at the milk spreading across the floor. I remembered yesterday morning, the way the mug felt warm in my palms when Dad handed it to me. Now, that warmth was gone. Everything was cold. My father carried my body from the hallway and laid me on the living room sofa. "Luna, stop this," he said quietly, his voice pleading now. "Don't fight your mother. You know she’s... she’s not well." He waited for a response. He waited for a blink, a breath, a twitch. When nothing happened, he let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. "Fine. Just keep making things difficult. God, can I have just one day of peace in this house?" I watched him lead my mother back to the bedroom. My heart—or whatever was left of it—ached. It hadn't always been like this. I remembered a time when Dad didn't frown at me. He used to spin me around in the air, laughing, calling me his "little shadow." And Mom... Mom used to sit me on her lap and guide my tiny fingers over the strings. When I managed to scratch out a few coherent notes, she would beam with pride. "That's my girl," she’d whisper. "A natural. Just like her mother." When did the music turn into noise? The silence didn't last. A few minutes later, the bright, fluttering notes of Chopin’s Minute Waltz drifted from the music room. In the past, whenever she played that, I would run into the room barefoot, dancing and twirling until I was dizzy. Dad would always pick me up and laugh. "Look, the music called our little puppy home." I floated into the music room now. I sat at her feet, just like I used to, resting my head against her knee as she played. My father appeared in the doorway. He lit a cigarette, his gaze drifting toward the sofa in the other room. "Hmph. Usually, she’s up and dancing by the second bar. She’s really committed to this tantrum today." The song ended. On the sofa, my small, pale body remained curled in that awkward, unnatural position. My father crushed his cigarette and walked over. "Luna, your favorite show is on. If you don't get up now, you’re going to miss the magical pony marathon." Usually, that was his secret weapon. Even when I was pouting, I’d crack one eye open. I remembered when I had that fever—I couldn't eat, couldn't move—but he had sat with me in front of the TV for hours, letting me sleep against his chest. But now, the girl on the sofa didn't stir. Not even a flicker of an eyelid. I crouched beside my body, frantic, trying to scream, trying to push myself back into my own skin. But I was just air. A shadow fell over me. My mother. She looked down at the body with a curled lip. She reached out and shoved my shoulder. "Enough with the drama. You’ve had your fun. Get up." When I didn't move, she grabbed my arm, trying to force it straight. But the rigor mortis had set in; I was as stiff as the wood of her cello. She hissed a curse under her breath. "Fine! Stay like that then. See who cares!" As she turned and walked away without a second glance, a memory hit me. I remembered learning to walk. I was always falling, skinning my knees. I’d sit on the floor and wait for her to come get me. She wouldn't do it immediately—she’d stand a few feet away, encouraging me, telling me I was strong. But the moment I really started to cry, she’d scoop me up. She’d rock me and whisper, "Mommy’s here. Don't be scared, Luna." I tried to blink away the dryness in my ghostly eyes. I felt myself becoming thinner, more transparent, as if a stiff breeze could blow me away. Mom, I'm so cold. Why won't you just hold me and tell me not to be scared? Then, the cat—a fat ginger tabby named Marmalade—crept out from under the sideboard. He usually loved sleeping on my lap, purring like a little engine. He trotted over to the sofa, heading for my dangling hand. But the moment his nose brushed my icy, rigid fingertips, his back arched into a terrified peak. He let out a low, guttural hiss and bolted under the sofa, his fur standing on end. My father called for him, but Marmalade wouldn't budge. Mother came back into the room for more water. Seeing the cat’s reaction, she slammed her glass onto the table. "Even the damn cat is losing its mind! This house is a madhouse!" She threw a disgusted look at me. "Look at her, sitting there like a corpse. I must have been a monster in a past life to deserve a child like this." My father opened his mouth to say something—maybe to defend me, maybe to agree—but he just rubbed his face and lit another cigarette. The smoke swirled, obscuring his features. He stopped looking at me altogether, staring out the window at the bright afternoon sun. The light was beautiful, but it couldn't reach the girl on the sofa. The rest of the day passed in a blur of neglect. Neither of them looked at me again. By nightfall, my father’s patience snapped. He marched over, scooped my rigid body up, and tucked me under his arm like a piece of lumber. I floated beside him, watching. His arms used to be my sanctuary. When it thundered, I’d hide in his lap, and he’d hum off-key songs until I fell asleep to the steady thrum of his heart. His hug was the warmest thing in the world. Now, I felt nothing. He walked fast, fueled by a simmering, repressed rage. He kicked open my bedroom door and tossed me onto the small bed. The mattress jolted, then went still. He stood over me, his chest heaving. "Luna! This is enough! You hear me? You’ve gone too far!" "I guess we spoiled you too much. Fine. You want to play dead? Stay in here. Let's see who breaks first!" I reached for his hand, but he turned away, slamming the door. Bang. The room went pitch black. Dad, how could you forget? I’m afraid of the dark. He used to leave the door cracked just an inch, a sliver of warm hallway light acting as a nightlight. "Don't be scared," he’d say. "I'm right outside." But now, I was terrifyingly alone. I curled into a ball at the head of the bed, my ghostly form shivering. The moonlight was a sickly pale color, casting a ghoulish glow over the blue-white skin of the girl on the bed. A long time later, I heard light footsteps. Soft. Hesitant. It was Mom. She stopped at the door but didn't come in. I floated over and saw her hand trembling as she pushed the door open just a crack to peek inside. In the moonlight, she saw it—the unnatural angle of my limbs, the hollow stillness of my chest, the lifeless pallor of my face. She gasped, her eyes wide with a sudden, sharp terror. She slammed the door shut and ran back to her bedroom. I heard my father ask, "Well? Is she done pouting?" I waited for her to tell him. I waited for her to realize. But she just forced a cold, brittle laugh. "Pouting? She’s just waiting for us to cave. She knows exactly how to manipulate us. It’s a game, David." "Go to sleep," she snapped when he tried to argue. "By morning, she’ll be so hungry she’ll come crawling out." The house fell silent again. I drifted back to my bedside. I looked at the girl who would never wake up. The moonlight caught a small bruise on my temple—a souvenir from when Mom had shoved me into the case the night before. Mom, Dad... I wish I could tell you. I'm not playing this time. I won't be hungry anymore. I won't be noisy. I won't ever make you angry again. You can finally have your peace. At the first light of dawn, my father threw the door open. His voice was sharp, impatient. "Luna! Enough! Get up and get dressed for school!" Silence. Only the heavy, oppressive stillness of the room greeted him. He strode to the bed and shoved my shoulder. "Did you hear me?" His palm hit my skin. No warmth. Only the terrifying, unyielding cold of stone. His hand froze. Slowly, his fingers moved to my nose. There was no breath. Not even a whisper of air. "No... no, that's not..." He scrambled, his fingers fumbling for a pulse at my neck, pressing into my chest. Nothing. Just a hollow, frozen silence. A strangled, horrific cry escaped his throat as he collapsed onto the floor. My mother, startled by the noise, ran in wearing her silk robe. "What is it now? What kind of stunt is she pulling?" Her eyes followed his gaze to the bed. The words died in her throat. "...She’s... she’s dead..." My mother froze. Her pupils shrunk to pinpricks. "What are you talking about? Who's dead?" My father looked at her, his lips trembling, his eyes filled with a raw, soul-shattering horror. "Luna... Luna is gone."
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