Soft daylight filtered through the hospital's floor‐to‐ceiling windows, gilding the tiled floor with a promise of spring. Viola Kane stood in the hospital chapel—a small room of polished wood and stone—cradling her swollen belly. Yesterday's procedure had succeeded beyond hope, yet the hum of monitors in the adjacent suite reminded her that every moment remained precious.
Lester Hayden slipped in beside her, offering a gentle squeeze to her shoulder. He carried two steaming cups of tea wrapped in napkins. “Chamomile," he said. “And ginger for the nausea you mentioned."
She accepted the cup, warmth seeping into her palms. “Thank you." Her eyes followed the simple wooden cross above the altar. “I've been thinking about redemption."
He took the seat beside her, chest rising and falling in
