Willow stood in the center of the bedroom with the phone still in her hand, the screen dark now, the call ended while her body lagged behind the fact of it.
For several seconds, nothing moved—not her feet, not her breath, not even her thoughts. The room remained exactly as it had been before the phone rang: the crib by the window, the folded blanket on the chair, the quiet hum of the city beyond the glass.
That was the cruelty of it.
Nothing had changed, and everything had.
Her chest tightened as though something had cinched inward and refused to release. It was not pain so much as pressure, the kind that made breathing feel optional, like a courtesy her body had temporarily withdrawn.
