He didn't remember the drive home.
One moment, he was leaving the hospital; the next, he was parked in front of his building, engine still running, headlights cutting through the steady rain.
The paper from the hospital sat on the passenger seat.
Blank.
Clean.
As if the records never existed.
He stared at it until his vision blurred.
"Permission," he muttered. "They waited for permission while she—"
He stopped himself.
The rage felt wrong. Not because it was undeserved—but because it felt guided.
His phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
You're beginning to understand.
He threw the phone into the seat beside him.
It buzzed again.
And again.
Each vibration like a pulse under his skin.
He killed the engine and stepped out into the rain.
Water soaked him instantly, cold cutting through fabric and fury alike.
Then he saw it.
His apartment door.
Open.
Just slightly—but enough.
Inside, the lights were already on.
His phone—still on the car seat—was vibrating like a heartbeat.
He froze.
Every instinct told him to leave, to run, to not look.
But he walked in.
The air smelled faintly of burning wax.
On the table lay the ultrasound photo again.
This time, a second photo sat beside it.
Same hospital background.
Same machine.
But the date was wrong.
It was yesterday's date.
And the screen showed a shape.
Clear. Sharp. Undeniably alive.
His pulse crashed against his ribs.
"No…"
He picked it up. The back of the photo had a faint mark — handwritten words in black ink.
"SHE STILL HEARS YOU."
He dropped it like it burned.
His head spun. The walls seemed to breathe.
The clock ticked wrong — too slow, too heavy.
Then a sound cut through the air.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
He froze. The sound came from the inside of the apartment door.
Not outside.
Inside.
He turned slowly.
The door was closed now.
The knocking came again—three steady thuds that rattled the frame.
"Who's there?" he demanded, voice raw.
No reply.
He moved closer, each step echoing.
The third knock came again, louder.
Then—silence.
He reached for the handle.
His phone buzzed again from the car outside.
The message lit up through the window.
DO NOT OPEN.
He stopped breathing.
Then, from behind the door, came a whisper.
So soft it might've been imagined.
"Help me…"
His throat closed.
The voice was hers.
"Lena?"
Another whisper, trembling, desperate.
"Please…"
Tears blurred his eyes. He gripped the handle.
Logic screamed no.
Grief screamed yes.
He turned the knob.
The door swung open—
—and the hallway was empty.
Only the wind. Only silence.
He stepped back inside, shaking.
Then the whisper came again—this time behind him.
"Why didn't you save us?"
He turned.
The ultrasound photos were gone.
And on the wall, written in dripping black letters:
WHEN HEAVEN IS SILENT, SOMETHING ELSE ANSWERS.