Back home, the small apartment smelled like detergent and old coffee. Nora laid the baby in a borrowed crib beside her bed and stood watching for a long time, afraid to blink in case the world changed again.
Her mother peeked in quietly, setting a tray of soup and crackers on the dresser. “He looks like you,” she whispered.
“Maybe a little,” Nora said, smiling. “But he’s calmer. That’s all Evan.”
They sat together for a while, neither speaking much. The baby’s soft breathing filled the pauses like background music life had been missing.
Later that night, when her mother had gone to bed, Nora stayed awake listening to the rain. Somewhere between exhaustion and peace, she reached into the crib and touched the edge of the blanket.
It was still warm—too warm. She smiled without fear. “You can rest now,” she said softly. “We’re safe.”
The wind rattled the window once, almost like an answer. The room dimmed, then brightened again.
And for the first time since the accident, Nora slept without dreaming of headlights and roads that never ended.
