Lucian cried himself to sleep again.
I heard him through the walls — soft at first, then louder, then soft again. The kind of crying that folds in on itself. The kind that stops expecting footsteps in the hallway. The kind that learns not to hope.
The twins slept in their cribs, warm and oblivious.
Lionel slept too, grabbing whatever rest he could before the house woke again.
And downstairs, Mateo played.
The pipe organ filled the house with sound — low, resonant, endless.
It vibrated through the floorboards, through the walls, through the bones of the house itself.
It was the only thing that settled him now.
The only thing that quieted the fracture inside him.
I went out to feed.
The new baby would be here soon, and I was starving.
I moved through the night with purpose, with hunger, with the weight of the household balanced across my shoulders.
Mateo didn’t notice I was gone.
He didn’t notice anything.
Vampires don’t need sleep.
We don’t feel time the way mortals do.
But even so, he had slipped beyond the usual rhythms.
He didn’t feel the hours passing.
He didn’t feel the house shifting around him.
He played.
And played.
And played.
Eternal Sadness had settled into him like a shadow that refused to lift — the final weakness, the one that hollows out the center of a vampire’s mind if they aren’t careful.
I had it too, but I carried it differently.
I kept moving.
I kept feeding the children.
I kept the house standing.
And still Mateo played.
One night, I brought Selene downstairs with me — just to see.
Just to test something I didn’t want to name.
I set her on the floor.
She watched him, wide‑eyed and silent, her little hands curled in her lap.
Mateo didn’t turn.
Didn’t look.
Didn’t feel her there.
I picked her up again and took her back upstairs.
The next morning, Lucian slept too long and didn’t make it to the potty in time.
He stood beside it, embarrassed and crying, asking me for help — but the contraction hit hard and sharp, and I had to brace myself against the wall.
Lionel came running.
He took Lucian gently by the shoulders, soothed him, cleaned him, held him together while I worked through the pain.
I didn’t call for Mateo.
I didn’t even think to.
I sat in the nursery, breathing through the contractions, alone but not afraid.
I had done this before.
I could do it again.
The organ played downstairs, steady and unbroken.
Nova was born.
I held her close, whispered to her, wrapped her in warmth.
The organ’s music thrummed through the floor beneath my feet — the first sound she ever heard besides my voice.
And then, without resting, without pausing, I moved the twins from their infant cribs into their new toddler beds.
Selene fussed, already overwhelmed by the world.
Thalia blinked sleepily, angelic and calm.
They were toddlers now.
Lucian was nearly a child.
Mateo hadn’t noticed.
Hours later — or days, it was impossible to tell — the hunger finally hit him.
Sharp.
Necessary.
Undeniable.
He stopped playing.
Walked outside.
Caught a passerby.
Fed quickly, efficiently, without thought.
Then he returned to the organ.
By then, Nova was no longer a newborn.
She was a sunny infant, sleeping softly in the nursery, her tiny breaths steady and warm.
Mateo didn’t see her.
Didn’t hear her.
Didn’t know she existed.
And still he played.
I watched him that night, my expression unreadable, my exhaustion bone‑deep.
I knew what Eternal Sadness could do to a vampire.
I had seen it before.
I had felt it myself.
But this — this was different.
Mateo wasn’t just sad.
He was lost.
And I knew, with a quiet, aching certainty, that he would have to find his way back on his own.
Back to the Hollow.
Back to the children.
Back to me.
Back to himself.
If he could.
Three toddlers and an infant is a lot of work.
Even with Lionel helping me — and he helps more than anyone I’ve ever known — it is still too much.
Two of them need to be potty trained.
One needs to be held almost constantly.
And Nova, sunny as she is, still needs feeding, changing, rocking, soothing.
Thankfully I don’t need sleep.
Lionel does, immortal or not.
He collapses into bed whenever he can, and I let him.
He’s earned every moment of rest.
The day Lucian had his birthday, he went downstairs first.
He wanted Mateo to come watch him blow out his candles.
He stood there — small, hopeful, trying to be brave — and waited.
Mateo never heard him.
I baked Lucian a cake that looked like a hamburger.
He laughed at it, the way children do when something is silly and unexpected.
He blew out his candles with a neat little puff of air, proud of himself, proud of being older.
He moved into the old fledglings’ room that night.
A big room for a big boy.
Before bed, he went downstairs again, to show Mateo how much he had grown.
Mateo never heard him.
The twins walk well enough now to go up and down the stairs.
Sometimes they come down to watch Mateo play.
They stand at the edge of the room, swaying a little, eyes wide at the sound.
They don’t understand.
They won’t remember.
Lionel does everything he can.
He promised Mateo he would help with the children, and he has kept that promise ten times over.
He feeds them, bathes them, plays with them, teaches them, comforts them.
He is the reason the house still feels like a home.
And still Mateo played.
Lionel and I managed to get the girls potty trained enough that they understand what to do, even if they don’t always get it in the potty.
Progress, in its own messy way.
But there are lapses.
The night I found Nova lying on the hallway floor — something inside me twisted.
I picked her up, held her close, breathed her in.
She didn’t smile.
She just pressed her face into my shoulder, heavy with a sadness she was too young to understand.
Sunny by nature.
Dimmed tonight.
I’ve gotten to where I don’t want to leave the house anymore.
Even to feed.
I’ve started drinking the plasma pouches Caleb is always carrying around.
They taste like nothing.
They feel like nothing.
But they keep me upright.
And I can’t afford to fall.
Not now.
Not with the children so small.
Not with Mateo so far away from himself.
The organ plays downstairs, steady and unbroken.
And I keep moving.
I had stopped expecting anything to change.
The organ had become part of the house — a constant, unbroken hum beneath every moment. I moved through the days with it vibrating in my bones, feeding children, repairing sinks, teaching toddlers to use the potty, rocking Nova, keeping Lionel from collapsing on his feet.
And still Mateo played.
So when the music stopped, I didn’t believe it at first.
The silence felt wrong.
Too sudden.
Too sharp.
Like the Hollow itself had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.
I set Nova in her crib — she blinked up at me, sunny even half‑asleep — and went downstairs.
The sanctuary door was open.
I hadn’t been down there in… I didn’t know how long.
Time had blurred into one long, sleepless stretch of need and noise and responsibility.
I stepped inside.
Mateo was there.
Not moving.
Just sitting on the edge of the coffin, hands slack in his lap, eyes unfocused but… present. More present than they had been in weeks. Maybe months.
He looked up when he heard me.
Really looked.
“Lilith,” he said, voice rough, like he hadn’t used it in a long time.
Something in my chest loosened.
Something else tightened.
“Welcome back,” I said.
He blinked, slow and confused, as if the words didn’t quite make sense. “I… I think I’m better.”
“You’re not,” I said gently. “Not yet. But you’re here.”
He swallowed hard. “How long—”
“No.” I stepped closer, placed a hand on his cheek. He leaned into it like a starving man. “Not now. You don’t need the weight of it yet.”
His eyes flicked toward the stairs, toward the house above us. “The children—”
“They’re safe,” I said. “They’re loved. Lionel and I have them.”
He closed his eyes, relief and shame twisting together on his face.
I didn’t let him speak.
“You need to hibernate,” I told him. “Now. Before the fracture pulls you under again.”
He shook his head weakly. “I can help. I can—”
“You can’t,” I said, and my voice didn’t waver. “Not like this. You need to sleep. Deeply. Completely. Until I wake you. Not before.”
He looked at me then — really looked — and I saw the fear there. The vulnerability. The exhaustion so deep it had hollowed him out.
“Will you wake me?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “When you’re ready.”
He nodded once, slow and trembling.
I helped him lie down in the coffin.
He didn’t resist.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t pretend he was stronger than he was.
He just closed his eyes.
I brushed his hair back from his forehead, the way I had done a hundred times before, and whispered, “Rest. I’ll keep the family safe.”
The lid closed with a soft, final sound.
The sanctuary went still.
For the first time in a long time, the house was quiet.
I stood there in the silence, my hand resting on the coffin lid, and let myself feel the smallest flicker of hope.
He was lost.
But he had turned toward home.
And when he woke, I would tell him everything.
But not now.
Now, he needed to sleep.
And I needed to keep moving.
Caleb came as soon as I called.
He didn’t ask why.
He could hear the silence in the Hollow — the absence of the organ — and that was enough.
We sat in the kitchen, the house finally still.
The toddlers were asleep upstairs. Nova too.
Mateo was in the sanctuary, deep in hibernation.
The quiet felt unnatural, like the house was holding its breath.
Caleb folded his arms. “He’s in hibernation?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure he’ll wake?”
“He will,” I said. “But not soon.”
Caleb nodded, accepting it. “You did the right thing.”
“I know.”
I didn’t say it felt like closing a door on him.
I didn’t say it felt like losing him twice.
Caleb studied my face. “How bad was it?”
I exhaled slowly. “Worse than I wanted to admit. He didn’t see the children grow. He didn’t hear Lucian cry. He didn’t know Nova was born.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened. “Eternal Sadness can hollow a vampire out. But this—”
“This was more,” I said. “He wasn’t just sad. He was gone.”
Caleb didn’t argue.
“And I thought that was the worst of it.”
His eyes sharpened. “There’s more.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He waited.
“I got a call today. For Mateo.”
The words felt heavy in my mouth.
“It was from a hospital in Willow Creek. A woman named Nora Lewis had a baby boy. His name is Fernando.”
Caleb closed his eyes briefly. “Mateo’s?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t look surprised.
Neither was I.
“I felt it that night,” I said quietly. “The intensity. The pull. I knew something had happened. I just didn’t know it would… grow.”
Caleb rubbed a hand over his face. “Nora was the first?”
“She won’t be the last.”
The truth settled between us like a stone.
“I can feel it. There were others.”
Caleb didn’t offer comfort.
He knew better.
“And there’s something else,” I added.
He looked at me, waiting.
“Before Mateo went into hibernation… he needed me. And I—”
I let out a slow breath. “I needed him, too.”
My hand drifted to my stomach, almost without thinking.
“I’m probably pregnant again. It wouldn’t be surprising. I’ve spent our entire relationship pregnant.”
Caleb exhaled slowly. Not judgment. Not shock. Just understanding.
“Do you know for certain?” he asked.
“No. But I can feel it. The way the energy settles. The way my hunger shifts. The way the Hollow feels around me.”
“And Mateo doesn’t know.”
“He can’t,” I said. “Not now. Not like this.”
Caleb stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Lilith… this is a lot. Even for you.”
“I’ll manage,” I said. “I always do.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know.”
But knowing didn’t change anything.
“When he wakes,” I said, “he’ll be overwhelmed enough. The children. The time he lost. Fernando. The others that may come. He doesn’t need this on top of it.”
Caleb studied me for a long moment. “You’re protecting him.”
“I’m protecting all of us,” I said. “He needs to heal before he can face what he’s done. Before he can face what’s coming.”
“And you?” Caleb asked quietly. “Who protects you?”
I didn’t answer.
There was no answer to give.
He placed a hand on my shoulder — grounding, steady. “You don’t have to carry everything alone.”
“I do,” I said. “At least for now.”
Caleb didn’t argue.
He knows me too well.
He turned toward the door, then paused — something thoughtful, heavy, unspoken settling over him.
“This,” he said quietly, “is one of the reasons I never pursued Grand Master.”
I blinked. Caleb never talked about ambition. Or rank. Or what he could have been.
“Master is enough,” he continued. “More than enough. Because Eternal Sadness only afflicts the Grand Masters. And I’ve seen what it does. How it hollows them out. How it takes the brightest minds, the strongest instincts, the gentlest hearts.”
His eyes softened — grief, not pity.
“I wasn’t willing to risk it,” he said. “Not for power. Not for status. Not for anything.”
He looked at me then, and I understood the truth beneath his words.
He wasn’t judging Mateo.
He wasn’t distancing himself.
He was mourning what had happened to him.
“For what it’s worth,” Caleb added, “Mateo is strong. Stronger than he knows. If anyone can come back from this… it’s him.”
I nodded, though the weight in my chest didn’t lift.
Caleb stepped out into the night, the Hollow settling into silence around him.
And I stood alone in the kitchen, one hand on the counter, the other resting lightly on my stomach, holding the truth like a weight I would carry until Mateo could carry it with me.
I lost Nova today.
One moment she was in the nursery, babbling to herself, sunny as ever.
The next, the room was empty.
No crying.
No fussing.
Just… gone.
I searched the house first — every room, every corner, every shadow. Nothing.
I found her outside the front gate.
Crawling in the street.
There is no way she got down the stairs from the top floor, across the hallway, down the front steps, and through the gate on her own. No possible way. And yet there she was, hands slapping against the pavement, humming to herself like the world was safe.
I scooped her up so fast she squealed in surprise.
Something inside me cracked then — not loudly, not dramatically.
Just a small, sharp break I felt in my ribs.
I can’t do this alone much longer.
But it is too soon for Mateo to wake.
Too soon for him to face anything.
Too soon for him to see what the Hollow has become without him.
So I asked Lionel to be Nova’s caregiver.
He didn’t hesitate.
He never does.
He took her from my arms, held her close, whispered something soft to her.
She smiled at him — she always smiles at him — and I felt both relief and guilt twist together in my chest.
I thought the mess Lucian made when he was potty training was bad.
But now there are two toddlers trying to figure it out, and they are not neat toddlers.
I asked Lionel if he would take care of the mess.
He said yes.
The twins are sad these days, and they don’t know why.
It’s possible they miss the music.
They didn’t understand the reason behind it — they only knew the sound filled the house, wrapped around them like a blanket.
Now the house is quiet.
Too quiet.
Lionel stocked the buffet table and lets the kids graze.
It’s easier that way.
They wander up, grab what they want, wander off again.
It keeps them fed without the constant cycle of high chairs and tantrums.
Lucian is behind on his homework.
He hates it.
He hates having a C.
He works hard to catch up, tongue poking out in concentration, brows furrowed the way Mateo’s used to when he was focused.
He still looks to Lionel when his needs are low.
Whatever he needs — food, comfort, help — Lionel is always there.
I’m grateful.
I’m ashamed of how grateful I am.
By the time I am sure I’m pregnant, the calls start again.
Two more.
Jaycee Wylie has a daughter — Avery.
Katelin Strange has a daughter — Raina.
I listen to the voices on the other end of the line, calm and polite, telling me details I don’t write down.
I thank them.
I hang up.
I stand there in the kitchen, the phone still in my hand, and let the truth settle like dust.
Three babies.
Mateo’s babies.
Potentially vampires.
We will need to find out.
Before they grow up.
I look toward the sanctuary — toward the quiet, toward the stillness, toward the coffin where he sleeps.
Mateo is below us, lost in the dark, healing inch by inch.
And above him, the world he left behind keeps growing.
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