I didn't know how I made it home. I only remembered that when Chester drove over to pick me up, my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I had crushed the cake box in my grip. Cream leaked out, sticky and smeared all over my hands.

"You're fine, Sophie. Once we're home, get some sleep, and you'll feel better," he said, steering with one hand and holding mine with the other.

His palm was warm, yet it sent a chill through me. Everything felt wrong, deeply wrong, but I couldn't explain why. My mind was foggy, my thoughts tangled, and I couldn't think straight.

The car rolled into the familiar underground garage and stopped in the parking space we had used for five years. The elevator went up, the numbers increasing along with the rate of my pounding heartbeat.

Chester must've picked Dorothy up without telling me. This had to be a prank. Everything was fine. Dorothy had to be at home.

The elevator chimed, and we arrived on the 12th floor. I unlocked our door and didn't even bother changing my shoes. I ran down the hallway like I had lost my mind, straight for the door at the end.

It should've led to Dorothy's room—pink wallpaper, a small bed piled with stuffed toys, and a desk full of crayon drawings. Chester followed behind me, his tone helpless. "Sophie, that's just the study."

I shoved the door open, and I gasped. There was no pink, no stuffed toys, nor crayon drawings. Instead, what met my eyes were dark-gray bookshelves, a massive rosewood desk, and walls filled with foreign-language books I couldn't even read.

The air held none of that childlike sweetness, just the old smell of paper and a faint trace of sandalwood.

"No, this can't be… This isn't real…"

I dropped to my knees, my hands clawing frantically at the expensive carpet. Just yesterday, Dorothy had been on this carpet, playing with her puzzle. A blue piece of sky had gone missing, and she had cried for ages looking for it.

Now, there was nothing. Shaking, I pulled out my phone and opened my photo gallery.

There were more than 3,000 photos saved, all of which were records of Dorothy growing up—her first time rolling over, her first steps, her first time calling me Mommy, and her first trip to the amusement park…

I tapped on the folder named "My Baby". It was empty, with zero items. Still dubious, I opened Facebook, only to find every post where I had shown Dorothy off, even on nights I worked past midnight, was gone.

What remained were only photos of Chester and me or shots of scenery. Even the captions had changed. What used to say, "Dottie learned how to ride a bike today!" now read, "What a nice day for a stroll in the park."

I broke down screaming. The phone flew from my hand and slammed into the wall, shattering the screen.

"Sophie!"

An anxious voice came from the doorway. I turned and saw my and Chester's parents. I scrambled over on my hands and knees and clutched Mom's leg.

"Mom, tell me the truth! I have a daughter, don't I? Dottie—just last week, you knitted her a sweater! It's red, with a bunny on it!"

Mom's eyes were rimmed red. She crouched down, stroked my hair with her trembling hand, and cried.

"Sophie, please stop… That sweater… You forced me to knit it for a doll. After your miscarriage five years ago, your mental state was never stable. The doctors said you developed delusions. We were afraid of upsetting you, so we went along with it this whole time…"

I froze. Even Mom was lying to me.

"A miscarriage?" I murmured. "That's impossible. I clearly had a C-section…"

I yanked up my shirt and pointed at my smooth, pale belly. "How do you explain this, then? I used to have a scar here."

This time, my mother-in-law spoke. She sighed, her eyes full of pity.

"Sophie, you never carried the pregnancy to term. It was an early miscarriage. These past few years, you've been doing unnecessary scar-removal treatments and skin care nonstop because you thought you had a C-section. Have you really forgotten?"

Everyone was looking at me, some with sympathy, some with pity, and some with helpless resignation. They formed a circle around me, trapping me in the center.

Had I truly lost my mind all this time?

The room began to spin. Darkness rushed in, and I lost consciousness completely.

When I woke up, it was already noon the next day.

Sunlight slanted through the curtains, blinding my eyes. I lay on the big bed in the master bedroom, wrapped in a soft silk comforter. On the nightstand sat a glass of warm water and two white pills.

"You're up."

Chester pushed the door open. He wore an apron and held a bowl of porridge. He was still so handsome—sharp brows, bright eyes, and a straight nose—the same face I had fallen for the first time back in college.

He sat on the edge of the bed and gently blew on the porridge. "The doctor gave you these. They're supposed to help you tell delusions from reality. Here, take the medicine and finish your breakfast."

I stared at him. Inside my head, two voices fought.

One said, "Take it. Maybe you really are sick. Everyone says so, even your parents," while the other screamed, "He's lying! He's lying!"

I opened my mouth obediently, popped the pills in, and drank the water.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "That's my girl. I want you to know that whether we have a child or not, I'll always love you, Sophie. If you really want a kid, we can adopt one when you get better."

"Okay," I croaked.

Chester looked pleased. He reminded me to rest, then went to the study to handle some paperwork. As soon as his footsteps faded, I bolted into the bathroom and forced myself to gag.

When I took the pills earlier, I had pressed them under my tongue. Two white tablets landed in the toilet and were quickly flushed away. I washed my face and stared at the woman in the mirror—pale, hollow-eyed, and hollow-cheeked.

If I really were crazy, why were my memories so vivid?

Dorothy had a strawberry-shaped birthmark on her right buttock. She liked to grind her teeth in her sleep, and she hated eating carrots. These details were too oddly specific to be delusions.

No, this couldn't be. Something was wrong for sure.

I stepped out of the bedroom and drifted through the apartment like a lost soul. Everything had been cleaned so thoroughly that there wasn't a trace left of a child ever having lived here.

My mind was on the edge of collapse. My nerves screamed, every sensation raw and disorienting.

Lately, Chester had been busy and was always in the study late into the night. Our conversations had grown shorter and fewer. Even his attitude toward me had subtly changed.

I knew it had to do with my "condition". He didn't want me disturbing him, so he kept me away from the study as much as possible. I respected that until…

Meow…

A soft, almost plaintive meow cut through the silence. It was Pudding, our five-year-old cat, the same age as Dorothy. We had gotten it the year she was born, and they had grown up together.

Pudding padded slowly in front of the balcony. When it passed the so-called study, it stopped. It crouched at the doorway, letting out that sweet, coaxing purr it always used when it wanted a treat.

Then, it did something that made my blood run cold. It stood on its hind legs, front paws gripping about 40 inches above the floor, right at the height Dorothy used to reach.

Before, Dorothy would hide in her room, eating snacks without sharing, and Pudding would paw at the door the same way, begging for a handout.

If there was no child inside but cold, lifeless bookshelves, who was it begging for?

Just then, Chester stepped out of the study, nearly tripping over Pudding. His face flickered with annoyance as he kicked it aside. "Why does this damn cat keep coming here?"

Pudding yelped in pain and bolted.

When Chester looked up and saw me standing at the end of the hallway, his face immediately melted into a gentle smile. "You're up. Why didn't you sleep in?"

I locked my gaze on his eyes, forcing down the storm raging inside me. "Oh, I just needed to use the bathroom."

To make him let his guard down, I played the obedient patient for three days straight. I took my medicine on time, never mentioned Dorothy again, and even offered to redecorate the apartment the way I liked it.

I went to work as usual. Even my colleagues occasionally teased, "Finally taking it easy, huh? Don't you need to pick up your kid these days?"

I simply smiled and shook my head, revealing nothing. Inside, I was forming bold guesses. I had no idea if I was being watched, so I trod carefully, keeping up the facade I had built.

Chester was clearly pleased, seeing that he had relaxed his watch over me.

This morning, he even left early for a company emergency. The moment the front door clicked shut behind him, my blank gaze snapped sharply into focus.

I rushed into the kitchen, grabbed the thinnest boning knife I could find, and went straight for the study. For the past few nights, I had been hearing strange noises coming from that room, like something being sanded down.

I pushed the door open and swept my eyes across every corner. The wallpaper was new—perfectly applied—while the furniture was mint, without a single scuff or dent. The carpet, however…

I lifted the heavy rug. The hardwood floor underneath gleamed, freshly waxed, the scent still lingering in the air. I remembered just last month, Dorothy had thrown a building block in a tantrum and chipped the floor.

Now, the floor was as smooth as a mirror.

I lay flat on the ground, sniffing and feeling along the seams, inch by inch, like a K9 dog. Finally, in the deepest corner behind the bookcase, near the baseboard, I found something strange.

The gap between the planks here was slightly wider than the rest, about the thickness of a sheet of paper. This board was just a shade newer than the others, so subtle that one wouldn't notice unless they were looking for it.

My heart began to pound, slamming against my ribs. I took a deep breath and jammed the tip of the boning knife into the gap. I pried hard, and a crack sounded—my manicured nail snapped. Blood seeped from my fingertip.

The hardwood plank ultimately lifted at the corner under sheer force. A faint smell of rot and stale dust rushed up to my face.

I switched on my phone flashlight and aimed it into the dark gap. It was full of years' worth of dust and tiny bits of construction debris.

I was about to give up when a faint white glint caught my eye, cutting through the gray haze. What was that?

I reached in with trembling fingers, ignoring the splinters digging into my skin, and clawed at it. After two tugs, the tiny thing rolled into my palm. I held it up to the sunlight streaming through the window and could finally see it clearly.

It was a tiny, milky-white baby tooth, its root rough and uneven.