The house was dark when Rory finally stepped inside, the warmth of the workshop still clinging to her skin, though the cold air of the hallway pressed against it like a reminder. Jim had lingered a little longer, still smoothing down the edges of the crib, and Sunny—after much dramatic protest—had given in to her own exhaustion and retreated to bed. Now, in the quiet of the house, Rory felt the weight of the night settle in again.
She made her way to the living room, drawn by some restless instinct rather than any real need. The ultrasound still lay on the coffee table where she’d left it, the grainy black-and-white image of the little life inside her staring back. She picked it up, running her thumb along the edge, and sat down heavily on the couch. The silence in the house was different
