AN: (written on March 2nd, 2018) I'm giving you guys this chapter, even though it's too early, because so many of you are flipping right out of your trees over how what happened could've happened, so don't lose your shit over the fact that this is the epilogue, okay 😉? The story isn't over, I just wanted you to have this so you wouldn't keep asking me about it.

Yes, I love you all that much lol. The rest of this story will continue and be inserted, chapter by chapter, before this one. This will end up at the very end, where it belongs, when the story is over. I just didn't want you all to suffer any more, not knowing how it happened.

Happy birthday 🎂, Merry Xmas 🎄, all that good stuff, and don't say I never gave you anything 😉 ❣️

🌺🍼🦁🌟🦁🌟🦁🌟🦁🍼🌺

Five years earlier.

Barachiel sighed and rose, though her aching feet protested. She'd been on them all day and most of the night, and she wasn't a light woman, even when she was rested.

But baby girl Tomlinson was crying again, her wails loud in the quiet nursery. Around her, the hospital buzzed with life, brightly lit and humming with activity, but in here they dimmed the lights at ten o'clock, trying to get the newborns on a circadian rhythm.

"What's the matter, what's the matter?" Barachiel crooned, looking into the bassinet that contained the unhappy baby. "You're upset because you don't have a name yet, aren't you?" She leaned down and picked up the newborn, cradling her against her ample bosom. "Shh, everything's okay," she soothed.

She wasn't concerned, even before she picked the infant up. She could see, even in the dim light, that the baby's glow was a healthy, vibrant gold, a gauzy, iridescent cocoon that surrounded her.

There were twenty-two babies in the nursery that night, and most of them had a good glow, in all different colors of the rainbow. The only thing they had in common was the shimmering quality of their light, the luminous sparkle.

Barachiel had been able to see the glows her whole life, though she'd never spoken about them to anyone. It was often discussed in literature, in fiction, particularly. Stephen King, one of her favorites, talked about it a lot; he'd even written an extremely popular book about it, with his name for it as the title of the book.

Barachiel herself just called it glow, because that's usually what she saw. She was pretty sure her mama and grandma had been able to see it, too, though they'd never discussed it with her. Barachiel believed with all her heart that it was a gift from god, a little sprinkle of something he'd given her.

She carefully placed the now quiet baby girl Tomlinson back in the basinet, and went back to her chair, lowering her bulk into it with a sigh of relief.

She knew that the other nurses were a little in awe of her, and how she just seemed to be able to tell things about the babies, sometimes. She knew when a cry was because the ID bracelet was too tight, or if a baby just needed a cuddle, like the little girl with no name. It had been this way all her life, and she didn't question it.

Tonight, she was worried.

The Gardener baby, 7 pounds, two ounces, was lying quietly in his bassinet, doing nothing wrong, seemingly healthy. He had a bit of dark fuzz on his head, and looked kind of like his mother, the very nice English lady in room 328b.

Barachiel loved parents like his. They were so young (by her standards, anyway), and so obviously in love, and overjoyed by his birth. His mother had reached eagerly for him when Barachiel had wheeled him in, and his father had been bursting with pride and happiness to see his wife and son together.

They had laughed and joked together about how she should nurse the little fellow as long as possible so her breasts would stay the size they were. They were obviously enchanted by their new baby, and the world was theirs for the taking.

Now, though, in the darkened nursery, Barachiel could see baby boy Gardener's glow. If it could even be called that. It surrounded him, like the others' did, but it didn't shimmer and sparkle. It was a very pretty purple, but it was faint, and oddly dull.

Her attention was called to another baby, who was crying in his bassinet. She once again heaved her bulk out of the chair and went to him.

"Hello, there, little Donald, what's the matter?" she asked as she picked him up. She brought him to the rocker, and sat with him, trying to soothe his crying, which seemed to have no discernible cause. She patted his back and rocked him, and this did seem to help. Maybe he was crying about his parents. The lord Jesus knew he had reason to.

When Barachiel was wheeling little Donald to his mother, she'd stopped outside the door because of the raised voices within.

"No, Eric, don't even try to deny it! You're off your ass drunk! You think I can't tell?" There was a pause. "And don't think that the whiskey fumes are covering up her perfume, either. You've been with her, don't even try to deny it." More silence. "You spent the night screwing your side piece while your wife was in the hospital after giving birth to your son. Classy."

"Shut up. Just shut up. Can't we just have a nice morning?" Eric's voice sounded plaintive. "You just gave birth to our son, like you said. Can't you lay off for one fucking minute?"

"Why should I? It never ends with you. The balls, honestly, to show up here bombed, hungover, whatever, reeking of your whore, I'm sick of it--" More silence, then, "What? You going to hit me again? About time for some fresh bruises, right?"

Barachiel contemplated wheeling Donny back to the nursery. But then someone else would just bring him back. She took a deep breath and entered the room.

There was a pretty blonde woman in the bed, and a man, presumably Eric, little Donny's father, standing near the window. He had very pretty eyes, that looked very much like the eyes of the baby in the basinet.

"Good morning, you two, I've brought Twinkles for his morning feeding," she called out cheerfully, deciding that pretending ignorance was the best way to go.

"There's my boy," Eric with the nice eyes called, coming to the bassinet and reaching for the baby. And whatever else she'd said, baby Donny's mother was right about one thing: he reeked of drink.

Barachiel could tell baby Donald's mother wanted to hold him herself, and didn't like seeing her husband with him.

"Give him to me, please," she finally said. "I have to try to feed him." And Barachiel could hear the hopelessness in her voice, the sorrow.

She turned and left.

Now, holding the baby, she couldn't help but cry, thinking about his future.

"You poor little man," she murmured as she rocked him. "You quiet down nice for me, though, don't you?"

And as she sat with Donny in her arms, she got flashes of his life, like a shuffled deck of photographs:
Crying in a crib for someone to feed him.
Hiding alone, terrified, while his parents fought.
Rushing out to try to protect his mother from his drunken father, getting beaten himself for his effort.

What a dismal existence for this wee mite, what a sad excuse for a life for this tiny soul who'd done nothing wrong.

She sighed and replaced him in his basinet, and stood looking at his glow for a minute. It wasn't pretty, either, though it didn't look like the Gardener baby's frail attempt.

No, this baby's glow was gray, like fog. It was thick, and opaque, and surrounded him like a dirty web. Healthy, for sure, but not happy. This little guy was going to live a long life, and suffer for most of it, judging by his healthy, ugly, glow.

Poor fellow.

She looked over at the Gardener baby's bassinet, and sighed again, with sorrow. She walked over to it, knowing what she'd find before she even got there.

His lavender glow was gone.

He was a little warm still, but not warm enough, not nearly warm enough. He lay, quite still, in his bassinet, unmarked in any way from his brief time on this earth. Poor little baby, she thought, to die so soon, so young. She wondered what had caused his death, what had caused him to just stop breathing, but her gift, the extra sprinkling given to her by god, didn't show her that.

"Why?" she asked, though there was no one to answer her. She was the only person in this part of the nursery at this particular time, though there were other nurses on duty. She was talking to god, she supposed.

Why, though? Why would the lord give that wonderful couple a baby, just to whisk him away? And why would he give that other couple, that miserable, suffering family, a lovely new life to ruin?

Before she knew what she was doing, before she could change her mind, Barachiel pulled her scissors from her pocket, where it resided with tape, a hemostat, and other accoutrements of her profession. She leaned over, as if she were checking something, and cut baby boy Gardener's ID bracelet off his tiny, lifeless hand, palming it and putting it in her pocket.

She then went back to Donny's bassinet. He was awake, regarding her with his pretty eyes, which were still the newborn color of slate. She quickly cut his bracelet, too, and put it in her pocket next to baby boy Gardener's snipped bracelet.

She looked around, but no one was paying any attention to her. She was a seasoned, responsible nurse, trusted. She knew that cameras were scheduled to be installed in the nursery any day now, but god was on her side, and it hadn't happened yet.

She walked to the cupboard where the bracelets were kept, and pulled off two new ones. She went to the deserted nurse's station and pulled up their information, working quickly and efficiently. She filled out the numbers on the bracelets and changed some of the information on the screen. As an RN with seniority, she had all the access she needed.

And why would anyone even check?

She went back to the bassinets and affixed the bracelets to their wrists, saying a little prayer over the lifeless Gardener baby as she did.

She gave one last look around, but, praise Jesus, no one was even looking. She returned to her monitors and sat in front of them, trying to calm her breathing. She'd never done anything like that in her life.

"Hey, Barac, you ready to go on break?"

She turned and smiled at Antonia, one of the other nurses, who'd just returned.

"I'm so ready," she said to the younger, slimmer woman. "I know I need to lose weight, but Lordy me, my feet are so tired today, nothing but a pan of Epsom salts is going to make them feel better."

"I hear you, sister," Antonia responded. "Go, take your break, get those shoes off for a few minutes. I'll be fine."

So Barachiel went on break, eating her meatloaf sandwich and drinking a cup of coffee. She returned to the nursery to the news of Donny's death, which meant a lot of paperwork, and grief for his parents, of course.

She did feel bad for them, because no one deserved that kind of sorrow.

But that little baby, who'd done nothing wrong, didn't deserve the life she'd seen in his glow, the hiding, the pain, the abuse.

She could see the Gardener baby (formerly Donald, but funny how quickly he'd become "the Gardener baby," even in her own head), lying in his bassinet, and on a whim, went to pick him up.

His glow was different. It wasn't the horrible, dull, foggy gray of before; it was now a deep mauve, like a mixture of the gray that it had been and the lavender of the poor, doomed Gardener baby.

And as she held him, she was bombarded with a veritable kaleidoscope of images of his life. The pictures of him hiding from his scary drunken father, of trying to cover his bruises, were gone. Now she could see him, smiling and laughing, not with the English lady, as she'd thought, but with someone else, a younger woman with brown hair and large brown eyes, though Mr. Gardener was there as well.

Barachiel saw the baby's life as she held him, running through the fountain at Washington Square Park with the young brunette woman, playing with a huge dog in a sunny, spacious apartment, being a good, benevolent older brother to his younger siblings.

She sighed with satisfaction and contentment.

The next morning, she once again wheeled a bassinet to room 328b, opening the door to the cheerful couple inside.

"Good morning," Mr. Gardener said to her, eyes lighting up when he saw the bassinet. "Josie, wake up, sleepyhead, time to feed our boy."

Josie sat up and opened her gown before reaching for the baby. She looked at him, a slight frown appearing on her pretty face.

"Nurse? Is this--I mean, do you--" she looked at Barachiel, then back down at the baby she held. "Is he all right? He seems different, a bit off, somehow..." her voice trailed off uncertainly.

"He's fine, mama," Barachiel assured her. "Just missed his parents, probably."

Josie looked at her husband for a moment before once again regarding the bundle in her arms.

"What's the matter?" Mr. Gardener asked, sitting next to her to look at the baby. "He seems fine, Jo, as perfect as he was yesterday."

Josie nodded, her brow straightening out. "You're right, you're right, I'm just feeling a little wonky still, you know?" She cuddled the baby closer, putting him to her breast.

He latched on immediately, taking the colostrum from her, which was all she had to offer yet.

"Right," she said, smiling at the new sensation. "He's lovely, isn't he?" She looked down at him as he nursed. "You're lovely, Leo Henry Gardener. Welcome to your nutty family."

She looked over at her husband, who grinned at her and reached out to stroke the baby's cheek.

Barachiel looked between both of them, hands on her hips, smiling broadly.

"I'll leave you three to it, then," she said. She left the bassinet and turned to leave. "You're going to be just fine, I think."

Praise the lord.