The night hung heavy over London, thick with the scent of rain and foreboding. Dark clouds loomed like spectres, pressing down as though burdened by shattered dreams. The car glided over slick streets, its headlights cutting through the gloom like a knife through silence. James gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, every bump in the road a jolt to his soulnot pain, but dread, as if fate whispered: *this wont end well*.
Beside him, Emily sat still, her breathing shallow. She leaned back, as if trying to escape the weight of her own body, one hand resting on her swollen belly. Her gaze was fixed on the bleak sky outside, her eyes hollownot with fear, but longing. A deep, aching longing, the kind that lingers when hope is already lost but the heart refuses to accept it.
“Jamie” Her voice was barely a whisper, frail as autumn leaves scattering in the wind. “Promise me something.”
He nodded, eyes locked on the road, but his entire body tensed. He knew this wasnt a request. It was a plea.
“Ifif something happens dont blame her. Our little girl. She didnt ask for this. Shes just here. And youyou have to love her. For me. For both of us.”
James clenched his jaw. He wanted to shout that it would be fine, that theyd go home togetherhim, Emily, and their daughterto the house hed built, with its nursery and toys and laughter. But the doctors words from months ago haunted him: *”With her condition, pregnancy is like playing Russian roulette. The odds arent in her favour.”* He remembered how Emily had looked at him thennot with despair, but resolve. *”I want this, Jamie. I want our love to live on.”* He couldnt say no. Not because he was weak, but because he loved her too much to deny her anything.
“Em,” he murmured, voice breaking, “were going home. All three of us. I swear it.”
He said it with conviction, but inside, he was crumbling.
The hospital loomed ahead, rain lashing its windows as though the heavens wept for them. He helped her inside, her arm trembling in his gripnot from cold, but from something deeper. She turned, pressed her forehead to his chest, and whispered:
“I love you. More than anything. Youre stronger than you think.”
The embrace lasted seconds, but it burned into his memory like the last flicker of a dying flame. Then she was wheeled away, and he was left standing in the rain, soaked through with loneliness.
Half an hour later, a doctor emergeda weary man with eyes that had seen too much.
“Its critical,” he said bluntly. “Her blood isnt clotting. Were doing all we can, but miracles dont happen here.”
James collapsed onto the steps, numb. Time stretched like tar. He paced, clenched his fists, prayed to anything listening: *”Take me instead.”*
Then, out of nowhere, Charlotte appeared. An old friend of Emilys, a nurse in the paediatric ward. Dark hair, tired eyes, the sharp scent of antiseptic clinging to her. She sat beside him, not asking, just knowing.
“How is she?”
He shook his head.
“Bad.”
Charlotte sighednot with sympathy, but frustration. “She knew the risks. Knew she might leave you behind. Was it worth it?”
James turned sharply, something hot and furious flaring inside him. How could she say that about Emily? But grief stole his words.
“Come on,” Charlotte said, pulling him up. “Lets get a drink. Waiting here wont help.”
He followed like a ghost. They bought cheap whisky from a corner shop, sat on a bench where the wind tossed crisp packets and dead leaves. She poured, he drank, barely tasting it. She talked about nothingwork, the weatherher voice steady, a lifeline he clung to.
He woke on his sofa, head pounding. His phone buzzedthe hospital. *”Stable. But serious.”* Not good. He bolted out the door.
Charlotte met him at the hospital. “I got them to let you see her. Just through the glass.”
She led him past wails and sterile smells to a window. Behind itEmily. But not Emily. A ghost, pale and still, tangled in tubes. The monitor beeped weakly. He knew then: this wasnt a fight. It was goodbye.
A day later, the call came.
“Im sorry. We couldnt stop the bleeding. We lost them both.”
The world shattered. He lunged at the doctor, screaming: *”You couldve saved her!”*
Orderlies dragged him away. The doctor adjusted his coat. “Money doesnt buy miracles.”
Charlotte arranged everythingthe funeral, the coffin, the wake. James sat in their empty flat, surrounded by Emilys thingsher scarf, her mug, her perfume. He couldnt speak. Couldnt cry.
Then, one night, a memory surfaced. An old argument. Hed stormed out, drunk himself stupid at a pub. Charlotte had been there. Listened. Comforted. Thenbetrayal. The only one. Emily never knew.
At the cemetery, he couldnt look at her in the coffin. He wanted to remember her alive.
“James! The wake!” Charlotte called after him.
“Im not going,” he said flatly.
At the gates, a little girlmaybe eight, in a tattered coatgrabbed his sleeve.
“Mister! Check the cameras! In the hospital! Youll see!”
He brushed her off, shoved money into her hand, walked away.
Grief became his engine. He worked like a man possessed, his construction firm tripling in size. Money poured in, but it meant nothing. He barely went homemostly to Charlottes flat. No memories there. No ghosts.
Slowly, her things invaded his homea toothbrush, a dressing gown, a suitcase she never took back. Each one felt like a nail in the coffin of his past.
One evening, he found Emilys photoonce on the mantelstuffed behind paperwork. He froze. He wanted to scream, to put it back. But he stayed silent.
A year passed.
Charlotte grew bolder. “Maybe sell this place? Too many memories. Lets start fresh. Get married.”
He looked at her, something cold rising in his chest. He didnt love her. She was just shelter from the storm.
One night, half-asleep, he murmured: “Em”
Charlotte shoved him away, snarling: *”Her again? Even dead, shes between us! She was a fool! I deserve to be in her place!”*
The mask slipped. He saw her thennot a friend, but a stranger filled with spite.
“Get out,” he said, ice in his voice. “Now.”
The door slammed. Silence.
Thenthe girls words echoed: *”Check the cameras.”*
He returned to the hospital, bribed a guard, found the footage. Grainy black-and-white. The incubator. His daughteralive. Then Charlotte, in scrubs, swapping her for a stillborn.
His legs gave way.
Police were called. They found recordsCharlotte had sold the baby to an orphanage.
And the girl from the cemetery? Her name was Lily. Shed overheard Charlottes deal, tried to tell someone. No one listened.
James fell to his knees. “Im sorry.”
He raced to the orphanage. The director led him to a playroom.
There she wasa little girl with Emilys eyes. She toddled over, arms raised.
He scooped her up, tears streaming. She smelled of innocence, of hope.
“Im taking her home,” he said.
That day, he bought everythinga cot, toys, tiny dresses. The house breathed again. He put Emilys photo back on the mantel.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
A week later, he hired the orphanage carerMargaret. “I need someone she trusts. You.”
Margaret agreed. Her warmth filled the gaps.
Months passed. One evening, after tucking his daughter in, James took Margarets hand.
“My heart will always have Emily in it,” he said. “But its learning to love again.”
He opened a ring box.
“Marry me. Lets be a family.”
She nodded, tears in her eyes.
Life wasnt perfect. But it was real.
And it was enough.
