The Cradle Was Still
Chapter 3 Part 1
Yuriko returned to the dressing room when the morning light reached the upper stairwell—a gentle, dust-filled stream filtering through the old hallway windows like memory in motion. She hadn't planned to go back. She had told herself—twice—that it was nonsense. A trick of her exhaustion, a lapse in blood pressure, a fever dream.
But something in her bones told her she had to see it again.
Not to prove it was real.
But to make sure it wasn't.
The floorboards creaked beneath her steps in the exact rhythm they had the night before. The corridor smelled of dry paper, cedar, and something sweeter that didn't belong. Powder. Perfume. Lilac.
The door was closed, as she'd left it.
She turned the brass key slowly. The lock gave with an ease that felt intimate, as if welcoming her back.
The room was still.
Utterly, perfectly still.
Light slanted through the narrow shutter near the ceiling, catching floating dust in its rays. The trunks were in place, undisturbed. The vanity sat in shadow, mirror cracked and waiting. And in the corner—
The cradle.
No movement now. No creaking. No rocking.
It stood motionless as any antique might, draped in a faint film of dust and silence. Yuriko stepped forward, slowly, heartbeat beginning to rise—not from fear, not quite—but from a terrible, familiar tension. The kind of dread that comes not from the unknown, but from recognizing a feeling you've buried before.
She stood before the cradle, crouched, and laid her hand along the curved edge.
It was still warm.
She didn't flinch. Not physically.
But her breath shortened.
She didn't imagine it this time. The wood beneath her fingers held the residual heat of life. Not a metaphor. Not a sensation of memory. A physical, undeniable warmth.
She pressed her palm to it. Closed her eyes.
Waited.
No whisper.
No breath.
No rocking.
Only that warmth, fading now beneath her skin.
She stood and moved to the trunks, needing to do something with her hands, needing to touch something cold.
There were six. Same as before. The second one from the top bore a name on a thin silver plaque.
YURIKO
Her stomach dropped as if her body arrived at a truth faster than her mind could interpret.
She unlatched it slowly.
Inside, wrapped in linen paper yellowed with age, were two garments. Dresses. Folded precisely, placed with reverence, as if by a careful hand that knew her intimately.
The first was a child's.
White cotton, hemmed with soft lilac blossoms embroidered by hand. Delicate puffed sleeves. Tiny shell buttons.
The second was an adult's.
Same cut. Same embroidery. Same white cloth, preserved without stain or wear.
She lifted it gently, fingers grazing the hem. It smelled faintly of pressed violets, skin, and dust. There was something unsettlingly familiar about the fabric's weight in her hand, like the ghost of muscle memory.
She didn't remember ever wearing it.
And yet...
She knew how it would feel against her skin.
Knew how tightly the bodice would hug her ribs.
Knew the way the sleeves would taper just above the wrist—right where she used to get cold.
She pressed the dress to her chest and closed her eyes.
Her knees touched the floor. The hem slid over her lap.
She breathed in once. Slowly.
Then folded the dress back, piece by piece, with care she hadn't used in years.
As she reached to close the trunk, her hand paused on the lid.
A shadow passed over her.
Not on the wall.
Inside her.
Like the echo of touch.
The feeling of another hand brushing hers—lightly, briefly, deliberately.
She turned her head sharply.
No one.
No breath.
No sound.
But the sensation lingered in her skin, in her chest.
Not violation.
Not violence.
Just... presence.
Like someone had reminded her she was no longer alone.
And her body had not tensed.
It had... yielded.
Even in absence, she knew the shape of that touch.
Even in silence, she heard his voice like silk against her spine.