I got home earlier than expected. Six months of work in Alaska had drained me physically and mentally, but tonight, all I felt was excitement. Christmas — a time for togetherness, and I was about to hold my little girl in my arms.

The pickup rolled down the snow-covered driveway, the pine trees in front of Maple Grove glowing with colored lights. I looked at the clock: 7:42 p.m. Just in time for dinner.

In my mind, I imagined Lily running out the door, screaming “Daddy!” and jumping into my arms like every year.

But when I pulled up to the front porch, there was no one.

No footsteps, no laughter.
Just the wind howling through the chimney and the Christmas lights flickering silently.

I opened the door. “Honey? Where’s Lily?”
The house was the same: the tree by the window, the wrapped presents underneath. But everything was quiet.

My wife — Claire — came out of the kitchen. The light reflected off her pale face, her deep eyes. She smiled, but the smile was… strange.

“You’re back?”

“Yeah. I called you several times but no one answered.”

“I turned off my phone. I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

I looked around. “Where’s the baby? Is she asleep?”

Claire stood still for a moment. Then she smiled, as lightly as the wind.

“Did you forget? Lily… is gone.”

I was stunned.

“What?”

“Four months ago. Car accident on the way to school.”

No. It couldn’t be.
I’d just received an email from Lily’s teacher before I left the station, saying she’d gotten the highest score in the class. I video-chatted with her before leaving. She smiled, showing me the bracelet she’d made herself.

I smiled awkwardly. “You’re joking like that again. It’s not funny, Claire.”

“Do you think I can joke about that?” – her voice was hoarse and tired. – “I buried her in the cemetery near St. Mary’s.”

I stepped back, my heart clenched.

“No. I can’t. You just talked to her…”

Claire didn’t answer. She turned away, walked toward the kitchen, her voice echoing from afar:
“I’ve tried to learn to accept. Now it’s your turn.”

I ran upstairs.
Lily’s room was ajar. I pushed the door open.

The room was empty.
The bed was folded up, the desk was empty.
The teddy bears were gone. The picture of me and her hanging on the wall was gone too.

I touched the desk—a thin layer of dust. But strangely, there was still a faint scent of lavender perfume that she used to spray before bed.

I collapsed onto the bed, trembling. “Lily…”

And just then—a soft lullaby sounded.
From somewhere inside the room.

“Silent night… holy night…”

The small, clear, trembling voice—it was my child’s voice.

I jumped to my feet.

“Lily? Is that you?”

The singing stopped.

A cold wind blew in, making the window shake slightly.

I opened the closet. No one was there.

But the white dress Lily wore in last year’s performance was hanging there—swinging, even though the window was still closed.

I stepped back, gasping. The wooden floorboards creaked underfoot.

“Claire! Come up here!”

She appeared in the doorway, her eyes panicked.

“You heard it too?”

“What? The singing?”
She nodded. “Every night. At that time, she sings.”

I looked around the room. “I… never told you.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me. Or you’d go crazy, like I almost did.”

We were both silent. Outside, the snow was falling harder, obscuring the backyard.

I looked at the closet—something flashed inside. I pulled it out: an old tape recorder.
The one I gave Lily last year to record her songs.
The red light was still flashing. I pressed “Play.”

“Daddy, let me sing to you…”
“Silent night…”

The singing continued, but at the end of the recording, my voice broke in — hoarsely:

“Good night, baby. Daddy loves you.”

I remembered… I had said that in the old recording. But what stopped me was the date of the recording — today.

I looked at Claire:
“Did you touch this?”
She shook her head. “No. I left it the same way since you died.”

I looked back. The recording light was on. Which meant… someone, or something, had just turned it on.

A soft knock sounded on the door. Knock… knock… knock.

I turned around. No one was there.

Just the dark hallway.

“Did you hear that?” Claire whispered.
I nodded, holding her hand tightly. “Let’s go downstairs.”

We had just reached the stairs when the singing started again, louder this time, echoing from upstairs:

“Sleep in heavenly peace…”

Claire screamed, hugging me tightly.

I turned to look — Lily’s room light was on.

I ran back up, my heart pounding.

The door was closed. I pushed it open.

There was someone sitting on the bed.

A small figure with long hair, her back to me, swaying gently.

I trembled: “Lily?”

She turned around.
A pale face, sunken eyes, purple lips, but smiling.

“Daddy’s home.”

I rushed to hug her — and passed through her.

It was just cold air.

I stepped back, stunned.
The image of her faded.

Before it disappeared, it whispered,
“Don’t make Mom suffer anymore.”

I knelt down and cried.

Claire was at the door, her hands shaking. “You… you saw me too?”
I couldn’t answer. I just nodded.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I played all of Lily’s old recordings. In the last one, between the singing, I heard what sounded like a car screeching to a halt, glass shattering — and Claire’s gasping breath.

Then my child’s voice was weak:

“Mommy, I’m sorry…”

I was cold.
Claire had never told me the details of the accident.

The next morning, I drove to the