Baby Hat: Ghost story

Not until midnight, the witching hour. She rocked back and forth in the old rocker she'd inherited from her grandmother, a way of burning nervous energy, knitting in her hands. She was knitting a baby hat, something for the ghost. Her grandmother had told her once, when she was just a little girl, that giving something to the restless ghosts helped, sometimes. Rocking back and forth helped, too. She'd learned that from her grandmother without a word being spoken between them. And so she waited until the witching hour, with rowan and ash sitting on her lap, and a ball of fuzzy yarn beside her, knitting the little hat for a ghostly baby that could never wear it. The sound of the old grandfather clock striking the hour in the hallway made her startle. She hesitated, purled the ends of the hat, and cut off the stray threads. Then she stood to walk to the salt circle that she'd laid out--

Inspiration: Um, the Muse told me that CSI was delayed till midnight?
Story Potential: Low. Nothing here inspires me.
Finished Length: Short story.
Notes: No, it wasn't an aborted baby. Sheesh, y'all have one-paradigm minds. I'm thinking dead-in-infancy sibling. Y'know, like mine.