Claira didn’t sleep that night.
How could she?
The silence around her was cruel—too perfect, too clean. It mocked the chaos inside her. The only sound in the small guest room was the rhythmic ticking of an old wall clock and the soft whisper of wind brushing against the windowpane. But inside her chest, a storm raged.
She sat at the edge of the narrow bed, one hand protectively curved around her belly. Her other hand clutched a folded note—creased, faded, fragile from all the times she’d opened and closed it. She had written it weeks ago, late one night when the loneliness had felt unbearable. It was a letter meant for Lucas.
But he’d never seen it.
She had never found the courage to hand it over.
Now, she realized, maybe she never would.
“No name. No ring. No future,” she whispered
