The Lullaby That Un-names You

At midnight, the bell tolled.

She heard the lullaby again—soft, sweet, wrong.

Not from lips, but from the walls.

A child wept beneath her bed, but no child lived there.

Paralyzed, she watched shadows drip from the ceiling, pooling into a shape with no face.

It crawled over her, humming.

Her mouth opened, but no scream came.

Cold fingers dug into her chest—not for blood, but for memory.

Mother. Father. Her own name—gone.

She forgot why she was crying.

Then it smiled, and she understood.

The lullaby wasn't ending.

It was her turn to sing.