Weeks passed. Spring arrived, carrying sunlight that made everything feel a little less heavy. Nora walked the park path each morning with the stroller, smiling politely at strangers who smiled back.
Sometimes she talked to the baby softly about the future: “You’ll go to school. You’ll learn to build things like your dad wanted.”
Once, she caught her reflection in a shop window and almost didn’t recognize the steadiness in her own face. There was no fear left, only focus.
Neighbors helped, nurses checked in, and Dr. Patel sent a card that simply read, *You’re doing great, both of you.*
At night, when she rocked Evan to sleep, she sometimes saw the blanket glow faintly under the lamplight—not enough to scare her, just enough to remind her that love doesn’t really leave; it changes form.
One evening, a breeze passed through the open window, stirring the stars on the fabric. Nora smiled and whispered, “Still keeping watch, huh?”
And somewhere in the quiet, she almost heard laughter—the kind that stays even when the person doesn’t.
It didn’t feel like haunting; it felt like home remembering to breathe again.
