Sasha moved through the small kitchen with quiet focus, her movements slow but deliberate. Preparing dinner had become more than just a necessity—it was a ritual that anchored her, a simple, grounding routine in the middle of all the uncertainties surrounding her. The soft sounds of chopping vegetables, the rhythmic bubbling of soup, filled the otherwise still apartment with a sense of normalcy she clung to.
She had been careful, almost meticulous, about her diet lately. Following every bit of advice the doctor had offered, every pamphlet, every whispered suggestion from the older women in town. She wasn’t taking any chances. Not with her baby.
But tonight, she added something extra. A small, thoughtful addition—a glass of warm milk resting on the edge of the table. She had read somewher
