The walk back from the NICU felt longer than the walk in.
Willow moved slowly, her body drained in a way that had nothing to do with surgery and everything to do with what it cost to hold her daughter and then give her back. Each step tugged gently at her incision, a dull, persistent reminder that her body was still healing. But the deeper ache lived somewhere behind her ribs, an echo of Zana's warmth still pressed against her chest, phantom-weighted and unwilling to fade.
Her arms felt wrong without her. Empty in a way that had nothing to do with strength or recovery. Every instinct in her body protested the separation. A low, constant hum beneath her thoughts whispered that she should still be holding her, should still feel the rise and fall of that small chest against her own.
