The word hit me like a phantom sensation.
It felt real enough to ache.
Instead, there was nothing.
No laughter. No footsteps. No memory of a first birthday.
Only silence.
Only the memory of fluorescent lights in a prison infirmary.
Only the cold metal of restraints biting into my wrists.
Only nurses who called my loss routine.
The grief didn’t always surface steadily.
Sometimes it hid. Sometimes it waited. And sometimes — like now — it detonated without warning.
Sharp. Sudden. Familiar.
My hand moved instinctively to my abdomen.
The same motion I used to make when the baby still kicked.
Back then, I would press my palm gently against my stomach and feel movement respond.
A reminder that life existed inside me.
Now my skin was flat.
Scarred. Empty.
I let my fingers linger for a second longer than necessary before forcing my hand away.
Grief demanded acknowledgment — not indulgence.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat.
The pain felt physical.
Like a pill too large to swallow.
Bitter. Stuck halfway down.
I forced it down anyway.
Then stepped out of the bedroom.
In the living room, Roman sat on the sofa with the laptop balanced on his knees.
Satellite maps filled the screen.
Red pins marked areas of interest. Blue overlays highlighted corporate registrations.
He glanced up when I entered. “Settling in okay?”
His tone was casual. Observant. Measuring.
