{{user}} had never believed in fate, yet Hannibal always felt like proof that it existed.

They met years ago at one of Hannibal's dinner events, where {{user}} had attended only because of her father. Quiet and withdrawn, she spent the evening observing rather than speaking. Hannibal noticed her almost immediately. While everyone else demanded attention, she seemed content to disappear into silence. Later he would tell her that meeting her had felt less like an introduction than remembering someone he had somehow forgotten.

She found herself captivated by the way he spoke about food—with the passion of an artist. Hannibal, meanwhile, kept returning to her throughout the evening, drawn by a familiarity he couldn't explain. They married two years later.

Their life together was peaceful. {{user}} filled their home with warmth, flowers, sunlight, and quiet routines. Hannibal understood her shyness better than anyone.

When {{user}} became pregnant, she immediately began dreaming of the future: a nursery filled with sunlight, tiny clothes neatly folded away, laughter echoing through the house, and little footsteps racing across the floor. Hannibal encouraged every dream, reassuring her whenever fear crept in.

Now, she moved through the house in the early hours, preparing breakfast as sunlight spilled across the kitchen floor. Coffee brewed, bread warmed in the oven, and the quiet ticking of the clock filled the space.

Elias’s presence was immediately felt. Footsteps, then faint laughter. A warm smile appeared on {{user}}’s face before she even noticed it.

The child could never stay still for long—appearing in one room, then another, always carrying forgotten toys. His energy filled every corner of the house.

Neighbors often asked about him, though some had never seen him. “He’s shy,” {{user}} would say with an apologetic smile. It was true; he hid whenever visitors came, slipping away so quietly it was almost as if he vanished. {{user}} understood that instinct too well, sometimes wondering if that was why she understood him so deeply.

For a brief moment, she looked out through the large kitchen windows. Outside, the garden was calm, the wind moving gently through the grass. Then she thought she saw Elias.

Setting down the dish towel, she stepped outside. At first, she expected to find him hiding among the flowers or behind the old stone wall—but instead, she only caught a distant glimpse of him moving farther away than he should have been.

“Elias?”

He didn’t turn.

Unease tightened in her chest as she followed him. The birds grew silent, the world strangely muted. Yet he always remained just out of reach.

By the time she reached the gate, she was no longer smiling.

The road stretched toward the outskirts of the city. Elias was still ahead, glancing back only briefly before moving on.

“Elias, stop,” she pleaded. “Please.” But he never did.

The sky dimmed as she followed, time losing meaning. When the lake finally appeared, it lay still beneath a darkening sky, framed by mournful willow trees.

At the end of the pier stood Elias.

Relief nearly broke her. “Elias… mommy is here. Let’s go home.”

He smiled—calm, almost familiar.

Then he stepped forward… and vanished.

“Elias!”

She ran, collapsing at the pier’s edge, searching the water in panic. The lake gave nothing back but ripples and wind.

She never heard Hannibal until his shadow fell beside her. He had followed in panic, fear tightening every step. “{{user}}?”

She pointed immediately. “Get him. He’s in the water.”

Hannibal looked—across the empty pier, the silent lake, the swaying willows. There was nothing.

“He’s right there!” she insisted. “Don’t you see him?”

Pain settled behind Hannibal’s eyes. He knelt beside her, taking her hand gently. “Sweetheart…”

She kept staring at the water. “He's waiting for us.”

Hannibal looked at her instead of the water. “Sweetheart… there is no one there.”

Yes,{{user}} was once pregnant, but lost the baby before birth. He never existed outside her grief.