She walked into the room and found Julian’s mouth… wet. Not just from a feeding session, but saliva, freshly wiped, as if he’d just finished talking.
She stumbled back. Her breath caught in her throat. “Impossible,” she whispered aloud.
That evening, when the nurse left, she did something she had never done before.
She went to the electronics store.
The young man at the counter showed her a tiny nanny cam that looked like a smoke detector. He helped her set it up. She placed it in a corner, high above the cabinet—watching, recording.
The next three days passed slowly.
She continued her routine—sponge baths, warm oatmeal through the tube, soft humming while combing Julian’s hair. She kissed his forehead every night and said, “If you can hear me, my love… I’m still here.”
Then came Friday.
She made tea, locked the door, and sat in front of her aging laptop. With trembling hands, she loaded the footage.
The first few hours were uneventful. Just her, moving about, tired and kind. A bent figure of love. She fast-forwarded to when she left the house for her doctor’s appointment—just a 90-minute window.
The screen showed Julian lying still, eyes open, unchanged.
Then—
Movement.