The silver tea tray clattered against the marble floor of the kitchen.

Claire crumbled right after it, her pale apron fluttering as she hit the tiles.

“Claire!” I yelled, dropping my briefcase.

My five-year-old twins, Lucas and Owen, ran into the kitchen from the hallway.

They didn’t cry out in fear; instead, they knelt immediately by her side.

“Wake up, Claire,” Lucas whispered, patting her cold hand.

Owen looked up at me, his eyes wide and unusually calm.

“She is just tired from singing us to sleep,” Owen said.

“She sings the soft song,” Lucas added, stroking Claire’s hair. “The one about the silver moon and the paper boat.”

My chest tightened, and the room seemed to tilt.

That was Evelyn’s song.

My late wife had made up that lullaby, and she had only sung it to the boys in the quiet of our nursery before she passed.

I had never sung it to them, and I had never spoken of it to anyone.

“How does she know that song?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“She always sings it,” Lucas said simply.

Ruth, the head housekeeper, rushed into the kitchen, her face turning white when she saw Claire on the floor.

“Call an ambulance, Ruth,” I ordered, lifting Claire’s limp shoulders.

Her skin was clammy, and her breathing was shallow.

***

St. Mary’s Medical Center smelled of antiseptic and cold floor wax.

The twins sat quietly on the plastic chairs in the waiting room, holding hands.

Ruth stood near the window, her fingers twitching against her wool coat.

She kept her eyes fixed on the rain washing down the glass pane.

“Ruth, did you know she sang that song to them?” I asked.

Ruth did not look at me.

“I knew she spent a lot of time with them, sir,” she said softly.

The double doors swung open, and Dr. Shah walked toward us.

He pulled off his surgical mask and gestured for me to step aside.

“How is she, Doctor?” I asked.

“She is stable, Mr. Whitmore,” Dr. Shah said, rubbing his temple. “Her blood pressure dropped significantly, likely from exhaustion and malnutrition.”