Chapter 2: The Green Light Above The Door
The lock turned with a small, definite click.
I kept my back to the door and held Leo against my chest, one hand supporting his head, the other resting lightly over the cotton sleeper at his ribs. His color had begun to return, but not evenly. The blue around his mouth faded first. His hands remained cool, and every breath still seemed too shallow to trust. Rain struck the windows hard enough to blur the glass. The overhead light made the nursery look clean and exposed, while the Persian rug held the dark wet mark where the bead had landed.
Alessio stood between me and the changing table. His pistol hung at his side, loaded and visible. Water darkened his white shirt at the shoulders, and his rolled sleeves showed the tension in his forearms. He looked toward Leo, then toward the sealed storage bag on the rug. He did not move closer.
I lowered myself beside the crib without touching it. The metal forceps lay on the floor near my knee. The penlight was still clenched in my hand. I checked Leo's mouth, his breathing, and the color beneath his fingernails. I did it slowly because the room had become an evidence site, but I did not let the evidence make me careless with the child.
His eyelids fluttered. His breath caught once, then settled into a thin rhythm.
I reached for the pacifier clip on the changing table with the inside-out storage bag still covering my hand. It was where I had seen it before the emergency, its short chain resting beside the folded cloths. Several small blue beads were fixed along it. They looked close enough to the recovered bead to create an immediate answer, which was exactly why I did not bring them together.
I lifted the clip by its clasp and placed it on a clean section of the changing table. Then I moved the sealed bagged bead to the opposite corner, leaving space between them. The bag crinkled under my fingers. Through the plastic, the pea-sized bead showed its faint groove and the black residue along one edge.
Alessio watched the separation. His gaze moved from the clip to the bag, then to my covered hand.
The pistol shifted as he adjusted his grip.
For a moment, I thought he would keep it there, a reminder that the room still belonged to him even while I held the child who had nearly died in it. Instead, he crossed to the upholstered chair near the window and placed the pistol on its seat. He kept his hand on it for one second longer than necessary before stepping away.
The distance changed the room. It did not make him safe. It made his choice measurable.
I went to the door and examined the lock without opening it. The green light above the frame remained steady beneath the nursery camera's lens. I looked at it from several angles. It did not flicker. It did not prove that anything had been recorded. It only proved that the small indicator was lit.
I did not touch the camera.
Leo made a weak sound and drew his knees upward. I returned to him at once, lifting him higher against my shoulder. His breathing stayed regular for three cycles, then faltered. I counted again, watching the rise and fall beneath the light cotton sleeper.
The room had become shelter because no one could enter without disturbing what lay inside. It had also become a sealed record of what none of us could yet explain: the crib, the rug, the changing table, the clip, the bead, and the green light that might have witnessed nothing.
May you like
Leo's color faded at the edges of his lips.
I tightened my hold and turned toward the locked door, listening to the rain and to the fragile breath against my neck. The pistol remained on the chair. The camera remained lit. Neither answered the question of what would happen if Leo's breathing changed again.
Related Stories
