Chapter 9: You Let Her Cry Alone I shouted. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t think. I just opened my mouth and let it rip out of me like something tearing free from my ribs. “Lena — what did I do to you?” The music box didn’t stop. It kept playing that same broken tune, the same cracked notes, the same hollow rhythm. It didn’t care. It didn’t react. It just kept going, like nothing had changed, like I hadn’t just screamed into the silence, like I hadn’t just thrown my voice against the walls and waited for it to bounce back with an answer. It didn’t bounce back. The intercom did. A click. A breath of static. Then the voice. “You let her cry alone.” I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I didn’t breathe. I just stood there, holding the shoe, staring at the crib, listening to the words sink into me like stones dropped into water. They didn’t splash. They didn’t ripple. They just sank. Deep. Heavy. Final. The crib moved. Not the whole thing. Just the mattress. It lifted. Slow. Quiet. Like it had been waiting for this. Like it had been holding its breath too. Underneath it was a hole. A square. Dark. Framed in rusted metal. A ladder descended into it. Rungs spaced just right. Just enough to fit a hand. Just enough to fit a foot. Just enough to fit me. I didn’t hesitate. I stepped forward. I set the shoe down on the floor beside the crib. I didn’t want to drop it. I didn’t want to lose it. I didn’t want to let go of it. But I couldn’t climb down holding it. Not with one hand. Not with the way my fingers had curled around it like it was the only thing keeping me upright. I placed it gently. Like it was sleeping. Like it was fragile. Like it mattered. I gripped the first rung. Cold. Rough. Real. I pulled myself up onto the edge of the crib, one knee on the wood, the other dangling over the hole. I swung my leg down. Found the second rung. Shifted my weight. Let go of the crib. Gripped the ladder with both hands. I climbed down. The air changed as I went. It got thicker. Heavier. Colder. It didn’t smell like anything. It didn’t feel like anything. It just pressed against me. Like the walls were breathing in. Like the room was holding me tighter the deeper I went. The counter started again. 196. I didn’t look up. I didn’t look down. I just kept climbing. One rung. Then another. Then another. My arms burned. My legs shook. My breath came harder now. Each one counted. Each one mattered. Each one was a step closer to something I didn’t understand. The ladder ended. My feet hit water. Not a puddle. Not a pool. A flood. It came up to my waist. Dark. Still. Thick. I couldn’t see the bottom. I couldn’t see the walls. I couldn’t see anything except what was right in front of me. I turned around. The ladder rose above me, disappearing into the ceiling. No light came down from the hole. No sound followed me. Just the water. Just the dark. Just me. I took a step forward. The water moved with me. It didn’t splash. It didn’t ripple. It just parted. Like it knew I was here. Like it had been waiting. I reached into my pocket. My fingers closed around the flashlight. I pulled it out. I clicked it on. The beam cut through the dark like a knife. Thin. Sharp. Focused. It didn’t spread. It didn’t scatter. It just went straight ahead, lighting up what was in front of it. And there it was. A crib. Floating. Not sinking. Not tipping. Just sitting there on the surface of the water like it belonged. Like it had been placed there. Like it had been waiting for me to find it. I took another step. The water rose higher. It touched my ribs now. It pressed against my chest. It didn’t pull. It didn’t push. It just held me. Like it was testing me. Like it was asking me if I was sure. I kept walking. The beam stayed steady. It didn’t shake. It didn’t flicker. It just pointed ahead, lighting the way to the crib. I got closer. I could see the wood now. White paint, peeling. One side rail missing. Just like the one upstairs. Just like the one in the room with the music box. Just like the one that had held nothing. This one didn’t hold nothing. It held something. Someone. Small. Still. Curled up on the bare mattress. Facing away from me. Hair dark. Skin pale. Clothes soaked. Hands tucked under chin. Knees pulled to chest. Breathing slow. Too slow. I stopped. The water came up to my chest now. It pressed against my lungs. It made each breath harder. Each one counted. Each one mattered. 196. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t think. I just stood there. Waist-deep in dark water. Flashlight beam steady. Crib floating ahead. Occupied.