I laughed nervously, hoping it was some kind of cruel joke, but he didn’t laugh with me. His eyes, usually warm and familiar, were cold and unblinking.

“They’re not real, Paul,” I said, trying to sound firm. “We don’t have any kids.”

He didn’t respond. He just stood there, staring at the empty nursery.

The nursery shouldn’t even exist.

I found it two days ago while cleaning out the guest room. Somehow, the boxes of old books and clothes had been cleared away, replaced by a crib, tiny stuffed animals, and pastel-painted walls. I’d assumed Paul was trying to surprise me, maybe as a way of coping, but when I asked him about it, he acted like it had always been there.

“You’re imagining things,” he said, brushing past me with a faint smile. “It’s been like this for years.”

That smile is what scared me the most. It wasn’t his smile—it was too wide, too forced, like he was mimicking the way a person should smile.

Last night, after his strange question, I locked myself in the bathroom and called his doctor. The nurse on duty promised to have him evaluated, but I could tell from her tone she thought I was overreacting.

I barely slept, jumping at every sound in the house. Around 3 a.m., I heard him moving around in the nursery. The soft creak of the rocking chair sent chills through me.

This morning, I woke up to find Paul already sitting at the kitchen table, his hands folded neatly in front of him. He looked… normal. Like himself again. For a moment, I thought I’d imagined it all.

“Good morning,” I said hesitantly, watching him closely.

He smiled, that too-wide smile again. “They’re so excited to see you.”

I froze. “Who?”

“The kids,” he said, nodding toward the nursery. “They’ve been waiting.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Behind me, I heard the faint sound of giggling. Soft, high-pitched, and coming from the nursery. The room I swore was empty.

The giggling grew louder, closer, until it was right behind me.

“Mommy?” a voice whispered.

Paul smiled wider, his eyes empty. “See? They’ve missed you.”