The night hung heavy over London, thick with the promise of sorrow. Dark clouds lumbered across the sky, burdened by the weight of shattered dreams. The car glided over rain-slicked pavement, its headlights cutting through the gloom. James gripped the wheel, his knuckles white, every jolt in the road reverberating through him like a hammer to his soul. Beside him, Emily sat curled into herself, her breath uneven, her hand resting on the swell of her bellyas though cradling not just a child, but an entire world on the brink of collapse. Her eyes, fixed on the leaden sky outside, held no light. Only longingdeep and unrelenting, like the bite of winter wind.
“James” Her voice was barely a whisper, fragile as cobwebs. “Promise me something.”
He nodded, eyes locked on the road, his body taut with dread.
“If anything happens dont blame her. Our little girl. She didnt ask for this. Shes just here. And you have to love her. For me. For us both.”
His jaw clenched. He wanted to shout that shed be fine, that theyd raise their daughter in the countryside house hed been building, with a nursery full of toys and laughter. But the doctors words from months ago echoed like a death knell: “Pregnancy with your condition is like playing roulette with five loaded chambers. The odds are grim. This isnt a riskits a death sentence.” He remembered how Emilys hands had trembled when shed heard, how shed looked at himnot with fear, but with resolve. “I want this, James. I want to be a mother. I want something of us to live on.” He couldnt refuse. Not because he was weak, but because he loved herutterly, helplessly.
“Emily,” he whispered, voice breaking, “were going home. All three of us. I swear it.”
The words were brave, but inside, he was crumbling.
The hospital loomed ahead, rain lashing its windows like the sky itself was weeping. He helped her inside, her arm trembling in his gripnot from cold, but from some unspoken knowing. She turned, pressed her forehead to his chest, and murmured, “I love you, James. More than anything. Youre stronger than you think.”
That embrace seared into his memory, a final ember before the dark. Then she was wheeled away, and he was left standing in the downpour, drenched in loneliness.
Half an hour later, a weary doctor emerged, his face carved from stone. “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, thick and suffocating. He paced, prayed to whatever might listenstars, fate, the indifferent universe. “Take me instead. Just bring her back.”
Then, like a spectre, Charlotte appearedEmilys old university friend, a nurse in the childrens ward. She sat beside him, her dark hair damp, her eyes sharp with exhaustion.
“How is she?”
He shook his head.
Charlotte sighednot with sympathy, but irritation. “Selfish. She knew the risks. Knew she might leave you behind. And now youre left picking up the pieces.”
James turned, fury flashing in his eyes. How dare she? But grief stole his voice.
“Come on,” she said, tugging his arm. “Lets get a drink. Waiting here will drive you mad.”
He followed like a ghost. They bought cheap whisky from a corner shop, sat on a bench in a dim park, the wind rustling litter and leaves. Charlotte talkedmundane things, work, the weatherher voice steady as a lifeline. He drank, feeling nothing but the burn.
He woke on his sofa, head pounding. A call to the hospital confirmed the worst: “Stable, but severe.” Not hopejust delay. He bolted to the hospital, where Charlotte met him again.
“I pulled strings,” she said. “You can see her. Through the glass.”
She led him past wails and antiseptic stench to a window. Behind itEmily. But not Emily. A ghost, pale and wired to machines. The monitors flat line was a death knell in waiting.
A day later, the call came. “Im sorry. We couldnt stop the bleeding. Neither she nor the baby made it.”
The world shattered. He lunged at the doctor, roaring, “You couldve saved her! Id have paid anything!”
Orderlies hauled him back. The doctor adjusted his coat, weary. “Money couldnt fix this.”
Charlotte handled everythingthe funeral, the coffin, the relatives. James sat in their empty flat, surrounded by Emilys traces: her scarf, her mug, her perfume. He couldnt speak. Couldnt cry.
Then, one night, a memory surfaceda fight, long ago. Hed stormed out, gotten drunk. Charlotte had been there. Comforted him. Led him to her bed. One betrayal. The one hed carried like a second coffin.
At the graveside, he couldnt look at Emily in the casket. He turned and walked away.
“James! The wake!” Charlotte called.
“Im not going.”
At the gates, a girlmaybe eight, in a tattered coatgrabbed his sleeve. “Mister! Check the hospital cameras! Theyll show you!”
He brushed her off, tossed her a fiver, left.
Grief became his engine. He buried himself in workhis construction firm boomed, contracts piled up. But he felt nothing. Just emptiness. He barely went home, drifting instead to Charlottes flata place without ghosts.
Slowly, her things infiltrated his homea toothbrush, a robe, a suitcase left “for a few days.” Then, one evening, he found Emilys photothe one that had greeted him every morninghidden behind paperwork. He nearly screamed. But he stayed silent. Easier that way.
A year passed.
Charlotte grew bolder. “James, lets sell this place,” she said over tea. “Too many memories. Lets start fresh. Get married.”
He looked at her, a cold revulsion rising. He didnt want new. He wanted back what hed lost.
That night, half-asleep, he murmured, “Emily”
Charlotte recoiled as if struck. “Emily? Even dead, shes between us! She was a fool! I deserve her placeme!”
The mask slipped. He saw hernot a comforter, but a viper. “Get out,” he said, ice in his voice. “Now.”
The door slammed. Silence.
He drove blindly, ending up at the hospital, the girls words echoing: “Check the cameras.”
He bribed a night guard, scoured the archives. Grainy footage flickereda nursery, an incubator. His daughter. Alive. ThenCharlotte, swapping her for a lifeless bundle.
His legs gave way. “Call the police.”
Within hours, the truth unspooled: Charlotte had sold the baby to an orphanage.
They found the girl from the cemeteryLily, adopted now. “I heard Charlotte talking,” she said. “I tried to tellno one listened.”
James fell to his knees. “Forgive me.”
At the orphanage, the director led him to a playroom. A little girl looked upEmilys eyes. She toddled over, arms raised. He held her, the ice in his chest cracking.
“Im taking her home.”
He filled the house with lifetoys, a crib, dresses. Emilys photo returned to its place. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
A week later, he hired the orphanages kindest carer, Margaret.
Months passed. One evening, he took her hand. “My heart will always love Emily,” he said. “But its learning to beat again.” He opened a ring box. “Marry me.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. She nodded.
Life stretched aheadflawed, scarred, but real.
Not perfect.
But enough.
