Julia POV
The hospital room had become a hollow shell, filled with silence broken only by my quiet sobs and Ethan’s restless pacing. The bassinet beside the bed, once meant for our daughter’s first nights, stood empty—a painful reminder of all we had lost. It had been 36 hours since our baby was taken, and every passing minute deepened the ache in my heart.
I clung to Ethan’s hand, my body still sore from labor, my mind trapped in a cycle of grief and guilt. I replayed every moment—the first cry, the feel of my daughter’s tiny fist around my finger, the trusting way she’d been wheeled away for testing. Each memory felt like a wound. “What if she’s hungry?” I whispered, my voice raw. “What if she’s scared? She needs us, Ethan. She needs me.”
Ethan’s own pain was edged with helpless fury.
