In the hush between midnight and mourning
he stood—barefoot, bruised by silence—
as the cradle creaked like old bones
rocking her tears back into sleep

She was fire and wail
a flicker born of grief and grace
and he—
still learning how to hold
a world that trembles in his hands

Nostalgia came in waves
not of joy, but of what could have been—
the lullabies he never learned to sing
The mother’s voice now ghost in air

He burned inside each night she cried
ash in his throat
but no flame could flame the heat
of a heartbeat pressed against his chest

“Shhh,” he whispered—not to her
but to the ache that built altars
from broken hours
To mirrors that refracts spectrum—
Of what could've been

And when she woke
screaming from dreams she could not speak
he carried her from cradle to sky
from nightmare to the hum of his heartbeat—
a sound she’d once heard underwater

In his arms, she curled like cotton
small fists unknowing
how love often grieves in silence
how men sometimes cry into blankets
so no one hears them unravel

He never told her
that the cradle was not for her—
but for him
to remind himself she is here
still breathing
still burning brighter than the ashes
of what he feared he’d fail to become

So he rocks,
even when she’s long grown.
Even when the room is empty.
Even when the cradle stands still.
Because somewhere between grief and love,
Nostalgia burns the brightest—
when it rocks you back
into what once was home.


Erennwrites