The nursery monitor flashed back to life. But it wasn't showing Olivia's crib.

For three seconds, the desktop was clean.

He looked back at the screen. The view had changed. It was now a freeze-frame of Leo, mid-turn, his face a blur of confusion. Across the image, in glowing red pixels, a new error had been overlaid:

It wasn't a cry. It wasn't static. It was a low, electronic hum, the kind a toy makes when its batteries are dying. But underneath it, barely audible, was a whisper. A voice chopped into digital fragments, like a corrupted MP3 being played backward.

"...wasn't breathing... didn't log it... just a glitch..."