Clean.
He laid me down gently as if I were fragile glass.
As if one wrong movement could shatter me.
Then he disappeared into the bathroom.
For a moment — silence swallowed the room.
I lay on the bed naked.
Raw.
Staring at the ceiling.
My body felt cleaner.
But the emptiness inside me was still heavy.
It pressed against my ribs.
That tiny life.
Ours.
It had existed. Even if briefly.
In a few months, I would have felt movement.
Small kicks against my stomach.
I would have watched my body change again.
Daphne would have pressed her ear against my belly and giggled at the idea of being a big sister.
We would have chosen names.
Names tied to strength.
Laurel trees. Victory. Resilience.
Something symbolic.
Something meaningful.
Something that honored survival.
But now —
Nothing.
Harris had taken it.
My father had helped destroy it.
My hands moved instinctively to my stomach.
I curled onto my side.
