The scent of antiseptic was slowly replaced by the faintest hint of warm milk and fresh linen. Meghan’s room had been moved from the ICU to the postnatal ward, and though she remained weak, her fingers no longer trembled when she reached for water.
Her voice, scratchy and soft, had found a rhythm. The bruises around her neck were fading, but the shadow of the trauma lingered in her gaze.
Grace arrived early that morning, a cup of peppermint tea in hand and a wide smile. Her own belly, now eight months along, entered the room ahead of her.
“I brought your favourite,” she said, setting the cup on the bedside table.
“Smells like heaven,” Meghan whispered. “I’ve missed normal things.”
Grace took the seat beside her, brushing Meghan’s hair gently off her forehead. “You’ve missed a lot, bu
