The night closed in over London like a shroud, heavy with the promise of sorrow. Thick clouds crawled across the sky, burdened with unspoken fears. The car glided over rain-slicked streets, its headlights cutting through the gloom. Thomas gripped the wheel, his knuckles white. Every pothole jolted through himnot just in his bones, but in his soul, as if fate were hammering home its cruelty. Beside him, Emily sat hunched, her breath shallow. She cradled her swollen belly, her eyes fixed on the darkened sky outside. There was no fear in her gazeonly a deep, aching longing, the kind that settles when hope is already lost but the heart refuses to accept it.
“Tom” Her voice was frail, barely louder than the rain. “Promise me something.”
He nodded, his throat tight.
“If anything happens dont blame her. Our little girl. She didnt ask for this. Love her, Tom. For me. For us both.”
His jaw clenched. He wanted to shout that shed be fine, that theyd raise their daughter in the cottage hed been renovating, with its nursery and garden and dreams. But the doctors words from months ago echoed in his skull: “With her condition, pregnancy is like playing roulette with one empty chamber. Its not a gambleits a death sentence.” Hed seen the tremor in Emilys hands when she heard it, the quiet plea in her eyes. “I want this, Tom. I want to leave something of us behind.” He couldnt refuse her. Not because he was weak, but because he loved hercompletely, desperately.
“Em,” he whispered, “were going home. All three of us. I swear it.”
The words were brave, but inside, he was crumbling.
At the hospital, the rain lashed the windows as if the heavens wept. He helped her inside, her arm trembling in his grip. She turned, pressed her forehead to his chest, and murmured, “I love you, Tom. More than anything. Youre stronger than you know.”
That embrace seared into his memorywarmth and light before the void. Then she was wheeled away, and he stood alone in the downpour, drowning in dread.
Half an hour later, a doctor emergeda weary man with eyes like flint. “Its bad,” he said flatly. “Her blood wont clot. Were doing all we can, but miracles dont happen here.”
Thomas sank onto the steps, numb. Time thickened like tar. He paced, prayed, bargained with the universe”Take me instead. Just bring her back.”
Then Sarah appeared. Emilys oldest friend, a nurse in the paediatric ward. Dark hair, sharp eyes, the scent of antiseptic clinging to her. She sat beside him. “How is she?”
He shook his head.
“Selfish,” Sarah muttered. “She knew the risks. Knew she might leave you shattered. Was it worth it?”
Thomas recoiled. Rage flared, but grief smothered it. He had no words.
“Come on,” she said, tugging his arm. “Youll go mad waiting here. Lets get a drink.”
He followed like a ghost. They bought cheap whiskey at a corner shop, drank on a bench in a soggy park. Sarah chattered about work, the weatheranything to fill the silence. Her voice was steady, anesthetic. He clung to it.
He woke on his sofa, head pounding. His phone buzzedthe hospital. “Stable. Critical.” Not hope, just delay. He bolted outside, back to the sterile halls. Sarah met him, whispered, “I pulled strings. You can see her. Through the glass.”
She led him past wails and sterile smells to a window. Behind itEmily. A ghost of herself. Pale, tubes snaking from her. The monitors flatline wasnt her heartit was her fight, dwindling to nothing.
A day later, the call came. The doctors voice was gravel. “Im sorry. We couldnt stop the bleeding. We lost them both.”
The world splintered. Thomas lunged, seized the mans coat. “You couldve saved her! Moneys no objectwhy didnt you?”
Orderlies dragged him back. The doctor adjusted his lapel. “Money cant fix some things.”
Sarah handled the funeralthe coffin, the hymns, the rain-soaked graveside. Thomas sat in their silent flat, surrounded by Emilyher scarf on the hook, her book left open. He couldnt weep. Couldnt speak.
Then, in the hollow nights, a memory surfaceda fight, years ago. Hed stormed out, gotten drunk. Sarah had been there, listening, leaning close. One mistake. One betrayal. Emily never knew. Now the guilt was a second coffin.
At the cemetery, he couldnt look at her in the casket. He wanted to remember her alivelaughing, her eyes crinkling. When dirt thudded on the lid, he turned away.
“Tom! The wake!” Sarah called.
“Im not going,” he said.
At the gates, a girlmaybe eight, in a tattered coatgrabbed his sleeve. “Mister! Check the cameras! The hospital ones! Theyll show you!”
He brushed her off, shoved a fiver into her hand, and left.
Grief became fuel. He buried himself in workhis construction firm grew, contracts piled up. Money flowed, but it meant nothing. He barely went home. Mostly, he went to Sarahsher flat was sterile, memory-less. Easy. Too easy.
Slowly, her things invaded his homea toothbrush, a robe, a suitcase “for a few days” that never left. Each one felt like a betrayal.
One evening, he found Emilys photothe one that had always sat on the manteltucked away in a drawer. He froze, a lump in his throat. He shouldve screamed, put it back. But he said nothing. It was easier to pretend.
A year passed.
Sarah grew bolder. “Tom, lets sell this place. Too many ghosts. Buy a penthousestart fresh. And maybe make it official?”
He looked at her. Something curdled in his chestnot anger, but revulsion. He didnt love her. She was just a shelter from the storm.
That night, half-asleep, he murmured, “Em”
Sarah shoved him away, her face twisted. “Emily? Even dead, shes between us! She was a foolgambled your happiness for her selfish dream! Im better! I deserve”
Thomas stared. The scales fell. This wasnt loveit was possession. “Get out,” he said, cold and clear. “Now.”
The door slammed. Silence.
He drove aimlessly, ended up at the hospitalthat grim brick monolith. The little girls words echoed: “Check the cameras.”
It wasnt nonsense. It was a key.
He bribed the night guard, scoured the archives. Grainy footage flickeredthe neonatal ward. His daughter. Alive. Wriggling. ThenSarah. Masked. Swapping the babies. Leaving with his child.
His legs buckled. “Call the police.”
By dawn, the truth was outSarah had sold the baby to an orphanage, pocketed the cash. The girl at the cemetery? Lizzie. A ward of that home. Shed overheard the scheme, tried to tell someone. No one listened.
Thomas fell to his knees before her. “Im sorry.”
He raced to the orphanagea drab building on the citys edge. The matron led him to the playroom.
There she was. Blonde curls. Serious eyesEmilys eyes.
She toddled over, arms raised. He lifted her, buried his face in her hair. She smelled of soap and trust.
The ice in his chest cracked.
“Im taking her home,” he said.
He bought everythinga cot, stuffed animals, tiny shoes. The house stirred to life. He put Emilys photo back on the mantel. “Forgive me.”
A week later, he hired the orphanages kindest carerMargaret. “Stay with us,” he said. “Be her family.”
Months passed. One evening, after tucking his daughter in, Thomas took Margarets hand. “Ill always love Emily,” he said. “But my hearts learned to beat again.”
He opened a ring box. “Marry me. Lets build something real.”
She wept. Nodded.
Life stretched aheadnot perfect, not painless, but true.
Built on ruins, but lit with hope.
