TOXIC MOTHERHOOD

Her lungs felt like they were on fire as she stumbled deeper into the woods, branches whipping against her arms and snagging at her clothes.

The farther she moved away from the city, the more the world quieted down no gunfire, no shouting, just the crunch of dead leaves under her boots and the sound of her own ragged breathing.

Finally, she leaned against the gnarled trunk of an oak tree, holding the cradle close as her chest heaved with sharp, uneven breaths.

She tilted her head down, strands of hair clinging to her damp forehead, and whispered softly, “You doing okay in there?”

Silence.

Her brows furrowed. “Really? You’re just going to ignore me now?” There was a hint of frustration in her voice, but she kept it low.

The quiet stretched on, weighing heavily around her until a half-smile crept onto her lips — tired, a bit bitter. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

She ran her thumb along the worn edge of the cradle. Probably just asleep… she thought. That had to be it.

Her shoulders eased, just a bit. But her eyes, scanning the trees, never stopped searching for any sign of movement.

She cradled the little one in her arms, her boots crunching softly through the underbrush. The woods surrounded her, alive with the gentle rustle of leaves.

“You want a lullaby?” she whispered, her voice a bit raspy. No reply came, of course.

A sad smile flickered across her lips. “Alright then. I’ll sing one anyway.”

Her voice started off soft and delicate, but it gained strength as the song filled the quiet of the forest:

“Sleep, little one, the night is deep,
The stars above are seeds we keep.
The moon will guard your tiny hands,
Dream of seas, and far-off lands.

Hush now, hush, the crows won’t call,
The shadows pass, they mean no harm at all.
Close your eyes, the wind is kind,
It hides the world you’ll leave behind.

When morning comes, the sky will glow,
The flowers bloom where rivers flow.
But if the dawn should never rise,
I’ll still be here, your lullaby.”

The melody drifted into the woods, as delicate as spider silk. For a long moment, the only sounds were her footsteps and the distant sigh of the wind.

She glanced down at the cradle, her eyes softening. “I really love Japanese culture,” she murmured. “I wish I could visit just once in my life… just once.”

The words slipped from her like a secret, swallowed by the trees.

The forest faded into a blur, and memories pulled her back in time.

Two Years Ago.

The world hadn’t yet shattered. No smoke filled the skies, no debris cluttered the streets — just the gentle rhythm of her simple life in Austria.

Ida Yanagi. The daughter of a Japanese mother who passed away too soon and an Austrian father who drank himself into oblivion. She carried both her parents' names in her veins, but it was her mother’s eyes — sharp, dark, and unwavering — that stared back at her from the mirror.

Her fixation wasn’t on men, studies, or even ambition. It was on children. Infants, in particular.

While her university classmates squandered their time in lectures and parties, Ida dedicated herself to the orphanage. Every single day, without exception. She fed them, held them close, and sang sweet lullabies. Her arms were made for cradling, her hands for soothing. She whispered promises into tiny ears that couldn’t yet comprehend.

But her love was anything but gentle. It was possessive, overwhelming, tinged with an insatiable hunger.

No one was allowed to touch them when she was around. Not the volunteers, not the staff, not even the children themselves.

And then—one afternoon—
a boy, perhaps eight years old, curious and a bit clumsy, reached out toward the baby in her arms.

Something inside her broke.

What happened next was beyond human comprehension. Screams reverberated through the hallways, sharp and unending, until silence finally settled in. When the staff discovered the aftermath, they could hardly believe that a single girl was responsible.

Ida sat in the corner, rocking the infant, her hands and clothes drenched in crimson. Her eyes were wide, filled with both fear and a fervent, almost religious devotion.

She was sentenced to life behind bars.

Even within the confines of her cell, her obsession didn’t wane. It only grew stronger. Guards whispered about her eyes, the way she constantly hummed to herself, and the dolls she crafted from scraps of fabric, treating them as if they were alive.

And then—one night—a man appeared at her cell.

He didn’t come with kindness; his intentions were purely selfish. Yet, from his wrongdoing, life emerged. Ida found herself carrying a child, and for a fleeting moment, she dared to believe that perhaps the universe was finally granting her something she could truly call her own.

But when the child arrived, the father was gone. Not by chance. Ida had taken his life. Slowly. Deliberately. As he bled, she leaned in close, whispering that no one would ever take her child from her.

Then the war broke out.

Bombs shattered the sky, and chaos engulfed entire nations. Amidst the turmoil, Ida managed to flee with her newborn. She decided it was a girl, even before the baby let out her first cry. She named her Yae Yamagi, a name steeped in the richness of her heritage.

But the child was not a girl.

It was a boy.

The reality gnawed at her like a festering wound. She had longed for a daughter—a symbol of strength, of purity, of everything she revered in women. Instead, the world had dealt her a boy.

Every cry, every wriggle, every breath from him clawed at her sanity. Until one fateful night, she silenced his cries with her own trembling hands.

The next morning, she convinced herself—and anyone who might inquire—that tragedy had taken him. War, disease, hunger—it was all the same. She had one child, and one child only.

Her daughter.
Her little Yae.

And she would guard her forever, no matter the sacrifice.

Ida’s lips curled into a faint smile as she gently ran her hand over the cradle. “You’re still here, Yae. My little girl. You’ve always been with me.”

Her voice was soft, laced with warmth, but beneath it lay a deep-seated ache.

The woods around her seemed to whisper, the wind twisting the trees into strange shapes. Shadows danced where there should have been none.

But the cradle… it had never held a child.

Just two months ago, on the day she managed to escape, she had held it tightly against her chest, vowing never to let it go. To the other inmates, it was merely a bundle of cloth. The guards laughed, and the prisoners mocked, but she stood her ground.

They just didn’t get it.

At night, she would rock it gently, humming softly, as if calming an invisible baby. In the mornings, she’d sing lullabies to a face she couldn’t see.

Wherever she went, the cradle was by her side. And with it, a presence.

At first, it was just a flicker in her peripheral vision — the faintest hint of tiny fingers tugging at her sleeve, a shadow lurking where light didn’t reach. But then it became clearer. A pale figure that only she could see. The daughter she had always longed for.

Yae.

She was perfect. Delicate. Silent. Always gazing up at her mother with wide, unblinking eyes.

Yet sometimes, Ida could have sworn she saw the girl’s lips move. Faint whispers seemed to fill the air, murmurs just out of reach, words that slipped away before she could grasp them.

And on some nights, when sleep took her, she dreamt of the boy.

The one she had killed.

Tiny hands clawed at her throat, blue lips gasping for breath. Each time she woke, her nails were buried deep in her skin, blood staining her neck like a cruel necklace.

But when the sun rose, she forced those nightmares away.

“There’s no boy,” she murmured fiercely, pressing her face against the cradle. “Only you, Yae. Just my little girl.”

And so, the lie became her reality.

In her eyes, the cradle was never empty — even if the rest of the world saw only a madwoman clutching at nothing but wood and fabric.

But to her? To her, Yae was alive. Yae was breathing. Yae looked up with those haunting eyes, patient and eternal.

And whether it was madness or a haunting, Ida had stopped caring.

Because sometimes love — twisted, obsessive, ravenous — is enough to bring forth ghosts.