Time no longer moved the way it used to.
It didn’t rush.
It didn’t drag.
It settled.
Into her.
Lyra had begun to notice it in the smallest ways
the way mornings came softer,
the way her body asked for pauses she never used to take,
The way every step now carried intention instead of urgency.
The third trimester had changed everything.
Not just physically
but in how she experienced the world.
Her center of gravity had shifted.
Not just in her body
but in her life.
She stood in the nursery again.
Barefoot.
Still.
Letting the quiet wrap around her.
The room was no longer an idea.
It was real.
Soft blue walls, touched with warm gold detailing that caught the light gently rather than reflecting it.
She had insisted on that.
“No harshness,” she had told the designers weeks
