They say the pond has grown darker, that three shadows sometimes break its surface at twilight—a man in a waterlogged waistcoat, a woman with pearls in her hair, and a child who never cried.
The deeds on the house remain in another name.
But the water knows the truth.
And beneath its still surface, we wait.
The Changelings Cuckoo
Chapter 1
Willow
My hands trembled as I packed the final box—the last of my baby’s items that would never be used. A terrible, low cry erupted from my mouth. I covered my ragged sob with my hand. The divorce broke me, but when I discovered I was pregnant, the new life gave me hope. The hope was to continue with a fresh start. Fate wasn’t through with me. My pain wasn’t enough, so it drove a dagger through my heart. The result was my stillborn son.
No. Fate destroyed me. It left me empty.
Gone were my innocent years of frolicking through my parents' fields. Gone was the girl who pressed wildflowers between library books, their delicate petals staining the pages with memories. The nature-loving tomboy who climbed oaks until her fingers bled had been smacked back to earth by the capitalist machine, forced to spend her days staring at screens until her eyes burned. Those carefree days were never coming back, and I would never be the same again.
I slammed the box shut. That’s when I heard it.
A muffled thud from my abdomen.
Not a cramp.
Not gas.
A knock. Like a tiny fist against a locked door. My breath hitched. Grief was supposed to haunt your mind, not your ovaries. I gripped my belly, which still held a paunch from where my son lay. I waited, but nothing happened.
Perhaps it was phantom pains that came to finish off what was left of me?
Silence.
Then—Another knock. Stronger this time. Deliberate.
My blood turned to ice water. Phantom pains didn't knock twice. Phantom pains didn't make the candle flame across the room gutter as if in a sudden draft, though every window was sealed shut. The houseplants on my windowsill, the ones I'd neglected since the funeral, trembled though no breeze touched them.
When the third knock came, I felt it vibrate.
And lower, much lower, something wet and warm trickled down my thigh. But I knew it was the postpartum bleeding. My body didn’t care if I gave birth to a live baby or a dead one. I shoved my sweatpants down to check, but there was no blood or liquid.
I shook my head. I was letting my imagination get the better of me. The box taunted me while my grief-stricken brain traumatised me. With a heavy sigh, I taped the last box, standing up to see the piles of boxes that would go into storage at my parents' farm.
A knock came again, but when I foolishly grabbed my belly. I realised it was my Dad knocking on the front door. He was early, but I didn’t care because I needed a damn hug before we began to haul all these boxes out.
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The city lights vanished as we reached the motorway. My doctor had given me a sick note, and I didn’t need to worry about logging into my laptop or going into the office with a hollow smile to face the sympathetic or awkward faces. All the joy and excitement vanished the moment my miscarriage took place. The journey was uncomfortable and silent after my father had exhausted all the mundane topics. I felt guilty because I knew he was concerned.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I just need a little time,” I whispered, staring at the road ahead, wishing I knew where my path would lead me.
“You know we are always there for you, Willow. He didn’t deserve you,” my Dad said gruffly.
He never liked my ex, but perhaps he saw how he treated me before I did. I sighed and leaned over to my Dad, slipping my arm around his. He kissed my head, and I whispered my love for him. My mother would be devastated for me, but would show a brave face for me. This was the perfect time to recoup and recharge with my family.
The only person who wouldn’t treat me like a tragedy was my Grandma.
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