Unborn Truths
978 Words
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by Helena’s shallow breathing. The journal lay open in her lap, the Latin phrase burning in her mind like a fresh scar.
> Memory is the link. Through blood, we are reborn.
Blood.
Her hand trembled as it hovered over her stomach. The realization settled into her bones slowly, chillingly.
She had been pregnant.
Before she died.
And she never told Miguel.
The memory was hazy, but the feelings weren’t. The rush of joy. The fear. The overwhelming desire to protect what she carried—who she carried. The promise she never got to keep.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“What are you hiding from me?”
The voice came from the doorway.
Miguel.
---
He stepped into the room, eyes locked on hers. She hadn’t heard him come in. He looked tired—no, more than that. Worn.
Like a man fighting ghosts.
Helena quickly wiped her face. “I didn’t hear you.”
Miguel’s gaze dropped to the journal in her lap. “You found something.”
Her throat tightened. “Yes. Something important.”
She hesitated.
If she told him now, would it crush him? Would it reopen wounds he didn’t even know he had?
But there was no use hiding it. Not anymore.
“I was pregnant,” she whispered. “Before I died. With your child.”
Miguel’s world stopped.
---
He stared at her as if he hadn’t heard her right. Then again. And again. His expression slowly shifted from confusion… to disbelief… to pain.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice rough.
Helena nodded. “The memory hit me when I read this.” She pointed to the Latin inscription. “It was like… something opened.”
Miguel’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, struggling to hold back whatever storm brewed inside him.
“Helena,” he said finally, “do you know what that means?”
“It means we lost more than just each other.”
He turned back to her, eyes shining with something deep and haunted. “And now we know Vítor took more from us than even I imagined.”
---
Miguel sat down beside her, his hand brushing hers.
“Why didn’t you tell me? In that life?” he asked, softly.
“I never had the chance. I found out days before... before the end.” She swallowed hard. “And I was afraid. I thought it would make you vulnerable.”
He closed his eyes for a long moment, then leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.
“We’ll make sure he pays,” he murmured.
“No,” Helena said, gently. “We’ll make sure we survive first.”
---
Later that day, Miguel made a call to his private doctor. Not for himself—but for Helena.
He didn’t say much on the phone, only that he needed “confirmation”. The man would come discreetly, under another name, to perform tests.
Helena didn’t argue. She understood.
Part of her wanted to know.
The other part… feared what it might reveal.
Because even though she had remembered the child from her past life, her body in this one was starting to change, too. She’d noticed the symptoms.
The fatigue. The nausea. The pull in her lower abdomen.
Was history repeating itself?
---
That evening, Miguel sat alone in his office, staring at a photograph. It was old—nearly a decade—but the face in it was unmistakable.
Vítor.
He wore the same smug expression. Same suit. Same serpent ring.
Miguel’s fingers curled around the frame. “You murdered her,” he muttered. “And now you’re back in my house. In my organization.”
He had once seen Vítor as a necessary relic. A tactician. Old blood, loyal to the structure.
Now he saw him for what he was.
A cancer.
---
Helena’s test came back the next morning.
She was pregnant.
She stared at the small white paper for a long time, her fingers trembling.
This wasn’t a dream.
This wasn’t just memory.
Her past had bled into her present, and now… she carried life again.
She found Miguel in the kitchen, sipping black coffee like a man preparing for battle.
He looked up at her face before she even spoke. “It’s true.”
She nodded slowly, eyes misting.
Miguel stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her tightly, fiercely.
“I won’t lose you again,” he said, voice thick.
“You won’t,” Helena promised.
But both of them knew better than to make vows so easily.
---
That night, Miguel gathered his inner circle.
Four men. Two women. All trusted.
Helena stood at his side as he laid out the truth—partial truth. Vítor was compromised. A possible threat. No room for error. No questions tolerated.
They would investigate quietly. No moves without Miguel’s word.
And Helena… would remain under protection at all times.
After the meeting, one of the women—Lucía, Miguel’s second-in-command—pulled Helena aside.
“You’re not just a lover anymore, are you?” Lucía asked, voice cool.
Helena met her gaze. “No. I’m family now.”
Lucía’s lips curved. “Good. Then act like it.”
---
That night, in bed, Miguel traced his fingers over Helena’s stomach. There was no bump yet. Just warmth. Possibility.
“Do you ever wonder,” he murmured, “what they would’ve been like?”
She turned to face him. “Every day.”
Miguel smiled faintly. “A little rebel, probably.”
“Like the father?”
“Like the mother.”
She leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. Their bodies met again, but this time, with a different kind of hunger.
Not desperation.
Hope.
A future.
Something they would fight to protect—together.
- Writer
