Author's POV:
Wilder stood before the baby's nursery, with second thoughts, and an unsure mind. He wondered what it was he would say to his grieving wife, or what condolences he could offer to her.
How could he console his wife, if he was supposed to be grieving too? How could he walk into a room he had designed and prepared for his child with his own hands, and be alright?
'The baby is dead, Wilder.' Hershel had informed him, the moment he walked through the gates of the palace.
'I do not appreciate such jokes, Hershel. And neither am I in the mood for one.' Wilder had responded, walking past his uncle.
'I wish it was one.' Hershel had voiced, and Wilder halted. He turned around, staring at his uncle with unbelief embedded in his eyes. "I wish it was one, nephew.'
Wilder didn't
