“Yes,” Adrian said, his voice unsteady. “He is.”
For the first time that night, the silence did not feel empty.
It felt like a beginning.
By morning, the storm had passed.
Sunlight struck the hospital windows with an almost cruel brightness. Snow glittered across the mountains beyond the glass. Machines still surrounded me. Tubes still ran from my arm. My body still felt like it had been made from shattered porcelain and put back together badly.
But I was awake.
Dr. Walsh visited with two specialists. They spoke carefully, explaining the risks, the monitoring, the need for restricted movement. The baby’s heartbeat remained steady, though they warned me we were not out of danger. Trauma could change quickly. Labor could begin without warning.
“Your son is doing better than we expected,” Dr. Walsh said.
My son.
The words filled the room.
I had not told Victor the name I wanted.
