The nursery’s mobile spun, dust catching sunlight. Clara traced the crib’s edge, her reflection warped in its bars. Six months. Six months since the doctor said “I’m sorry” and Ethan stopped sleeping.
He found her in the kitchen, blood dripping into the sink. “Clara—”
“It’s nothing,” she said, letting him bandage it, his hands steady but his eyes shattered.
In the ER, she saw them—a couple with twins, pink and squalling. Clara stood, Ethan’s grip tightening. “Don’t—”
Too late. She lunged, snatching a baby. “Your babies are perfect! Just one! You have two!”
Security pried her away. Ethan shielded her body, whispering, “I’m here,” as they sedated her.
At the facility, he visits daily. Brings lilies, her sketchbook, the blanket she’d knitted. She sits by the window, a stolen baby sock sewn into her doll’s hand. “I’m better now,” she says, smiling. “Take me home.”
He doesn’t mention the custody papers in his car.
That night, she hums Twinkle, Twinkle to the doll. Ethan watches her sleep, moonlight sharpening his face—love and grief, twin blades.
Ending:
