The phone rang with an unusual shrillness for the room. It was morning, and light seeped slowly through the curtains of Andrew's apartment. The atmosphere was still. There was no clattering or commotion, just the startling bark of the landline. The sound felt out of place.
Anna walked through the living room barefoot to pick up the phone.
"Hello?" She spoke tentatively.
There was a pause. Then a voice, low, cautious, almost prepared.
Whatever she heard on the other end made Anna freeze. Her fingers loosened, and the phone dropped from her grip. It hit the floor with a crash, jolting the room to life.
She grasped her chest and gasped.
"Oh, my God..." "Mrs. Andrew!" She screamed, her voice cracking with panic.
Sharon sat by the window, reading in her bedroom's stillness. She rushed out as if a hurricane had struck the corridor. Her robe flew behind her, and her typically composed expression quickly unravelled.
"What happened, Anna?" She asked.
Anna remained silent. She looked like she'd watched someone jump from a roof. She was pale and blinking too fast, breathing in bits.
Jill stood in the hallway, having just awoken. She wore one sock and had the other one-off. Her hair was wild, and her face was swollen from sleep. She positioned herself behind the doorframe as if it could protect her from whatever was happening outside.
Anna leaned closer to Sharon and whispered. Sharon's spine stiffened, and her eyes darted as if something inside her chest had erupted.
She didn't wait and didn't ask any further questions. She turned and dashed outside.
Jill stepped out into the light. Her arms crossed over her tummy as if she were holding herself together.
Anna stared at her slowly and gently.
"Jill?"
Jill blinked. Her lips parted, but nothing emerged. She appeared younger than usual. Hollow. Then her voice came out harsh and trembling.
"My dad… they called because of him, right?" Jill said, her voice low.
Anna nodded twice, her eyes wide as if frightened to speak.
"Is he dead?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Anna hesitated. Her lips parted and then closed shut again. And finally—
"He was in an accident. On his way home." Anna said.
Jill stood still. One hand moved up to cover her mouth. Her gaze shifted to the floor.
"I just want to know, is he…" She didn't complete her sentence as she sobbed softly.
Anna shook her head slowly. "The hospital says he's in critical condition."
Jill's expression revealed no relief; she didn't cry or breathe any easier.
"It doesn't matter," she stated bluntly. "He'll die anyway."
Anna was transfixed, taken aback by Jill's abrupt change in tone and the expression in her eyes. She looked at Jill's face, dumbfounded, her countenance knotted in perplexity and disbelief.
Jill turned away and walked up the stairs and along the hall like a ghost with nowhere else to haunt.
The door to her room slammed closed.
The door clicked behind her, and she collapsed to the floor as if the strength in her knees failed her. The arms wrapped around her ribs, with her face buried in them.
She sobbed uncontrollably, shaking her entire body. The kind of sadness ripped through her, raw and unfiltered. Leaving your chest aching.
Then—
A voice from behind. Low and warm.
"Jill?"
She froze as she recognised the voice.
She turned around.
And there he was.
Will Andrew—Jill's father. He was standing in the middle of her room. Dressed in that same deep blue suit, he was always called his lucky one. The fabric looked untouched by time, crisp and precise.
"Dad?" she said her voice above a whisper.
She rose slowly, her legs shaky. Her eyes didn't blink, and she was frightened Will might vanish if she did.
"It's okay, my dear. Come here." Will spoke gently.
He opened his arms, and Jill collapsed into them, her tears resuming. She crushed her forehead against his chest, clinging to him as if he would disappear.
Her sobbing became deeper, harder, and shook her entire body. Will said nothing but held her close and slowly rubbed his palm over her head, steady and warm.
"I'm so sorry, Dad," she sobbed. "I didn't mean any of it. I never meant—"
Will held her tighter.
"It's going to be okay," Will said gently. "I came to say goodbye."
Tears rose in her throat, refusing to fall.
"No," she whispered.
"Be strong," he said. "Life isn't something you can lock in a box. It doesn't wait for permission. You don't get to hold it still. It moves with or without you. What matters is that you move with it."
She clutched him, unwilling to let go.
"Seek the unknown with love," he said, "and you'll find peace."
"Please don't—" Jill wailed deeply.
"Goodbye, Jill."
One blink. One breath.
And he was gone.
She reached out instinctively—but her hands closed around nothing.
She was holding onto air.
"Dad!" she screamed. "No! Dad!"
She swung around, her gaze flying around the room in search of him.
She quickly breathed and explored every shade and corner, but he was not there.
She sobbed. The stillness set in again.
Then, another presence stepped into the light.
From the corner of the room, half-shadowed.
Larry.
"I brought him here," he explained calmly as if a priest were lighting a candle. "So he could say goodbye."
Jill charged at him, her eyes blazing.
"What did you do?" she shouted, her voice trembling with fury.
She seized him, repeatedly beating his chest with her fists, fuelled by wrath and despair. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her face contorted in misery.
"I hate you!" she cried, her words ripped from somewhere deep, raw, and broken.
Larry raised his arms, attempting to protect himself from her strikes. Then, in a quick burst of strength, he grasped her wrists and pushed her back.
Jill slipped, lost her footing, and dropped to the bed.
"I helped you!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with rage. "You should be grateful!"
She lay still, with her chest rising and falling in quick, irregular breaths. Her eyes looked blankly at the ceiling, indignant, exhausted, and helpless. The wrath remained inside her, yet her body had nothing more to give.
He stepped closer.
"You wanted a chance to say goodbye. I gave it to you. Don't be an ingrate, Jill."
"You killed him." She sobbed.
Larry tilted his head, an uncanny smile creeping over his lips. "He would have turned away from you, Jill." If he was aware, you were pregnant. "He would not have understood."
"You think I care?" she snarled.
"You should care, my dear," Larry said with a chilling calm, "because what you're carrying isn't just a child—it's a new kind of species."
"I swear, I'll find a way to end this. "I'll rip this thing out of me if necessary," Jill spoke with rage in her voice.
"You won't," he said.
She rose slowly, her eyes fastened on Larry in a cold, unblinking glare. Her arms grasped her stomach with a tight, frantic hold as if she might crush whatever was growing inside her.
"I live in you now," he continued. "You're the bridge between two worlds. There's no going back."
Her voice trembled, but stayed fierce. "Why me? Why not someone else?"
"Because you already carry the weight. You've survived things others would've drowned in. You don't just endure—you keep walking. I needed someone who could hold the chaos."
Jill stared at him. "What do you want from me?"
Larry kept his gaze on her. "Rest," he said. "Getting upset isn't good for the baby."
"I will end you, Larry," she said, her voice low and burning with fury—each word sharp, sure, and alive with the kind of rage that doesn't back down.
"You wouldn't dare," Larry yelled.
"You promised you wouldn't hurt him—and you did!" she screamed, her voice raw with fury, shaking with the weight of betrayal.
"I did you a favour," Larry said, his tone cold and calculating. "If he's alive, he's going to jeopardise everything. He'll disown you, and that'll destroy you. It'll ruin my plans. That's why I did it."
Larry moved towards the door before pausing to look back at Jill, still standing there, her eyes flaming with rage.
"Like I said," he said, a smug tone in his voice, "take a rest and prepare for the final, mate."
Then he turned and walked out, calm and unconcerned as if he owned the room—and everything in it.
The door slammed behind him. Jill fell back down to the floor. Her hands rested on her stomach. Her face was damp and burning.
The room became still and quiet, but the atmosphere had altered as if something had shattered. It was not too loud, not breaking, just enough to realise that things would not return to normal.
Jill stood on the edge of her bed.
She gazed at the wall for a long time.
She wasn't crying any longer.
The silence that followed was not calm.
It was the kind of silence that lingers.
The kind that occurs before something breaks.
She gazed at the family photo on the wall, which depicted her father standing tall in the deep blue suit he always referred to as his lucky suit.
The sight of it ignited an inner response in her.
She dropped to her knees, clutching her stomach and sobbing—loud, agonising sounds that seemed to come from deep within her.
"I don't want to be pregnant..." "I don't want to be pregnant," she wailed, her voice quivering. "Please, God..." Let it be a dream. Let it stop. Please make it
stop."
Her entire body trembled from anguish. With her eyes pressed shut, she wailed into the silence, rocking back and forth on the floor.
When she eventually opened her eyes, her attention shifted to the door, and she froze.
Sharon stood in the doorway, staring at her, stunned to stillness.
Jill was shocked, wiping away her tears and trying to stand.
"Mum," she whispered.
Sharon stood there, speechless, her facial expression inscrutable.