His words settled inside me.
The truth had weight.
It needed gathering.
It needed patience.
It needed me alive.
I looked down at my stomach. “Then I’ll stay dead a little longer.”
Adrian did not respond immediately.
When he did, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I am sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not finding you sooner.”
I turned my face toward the window again.
Outside, snow continued to fall, soft and relentless, covering tracks, smoothing sharp edges, making the whole world look innocent.
“My mother used to say regret is just love with nowhere to go,” I said.
Adrian inhaled slowly.
“She said that?”
I nodded.
He looked away.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then my baby moved.
It was faint, no more than a flutter beneath my palm, but it was there. My breath caught. Adrian saw my expression change and stood, alarmed.
“What is it?”
