And for the first time in a long while, I laughed. But it wasn’t joy, it was something dark and broken, a sound that barely resembled me.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, looking around the room that once symbolized love and loyalty. Now, it was just a grave of memories.
I started packing again, throwing clothes into suitcases. Each fold of fabric felt like shedding another piece of a life I no longer wanted.
That was when I heard the door open.
“Zera?”
Her voice. I turned around slowly, seeing Hannah standing in the doorway. Her hand rested gently on her stomach, the very same stomach that carried my husband’s child, and my daughter’s heart beating inside it.
“I wanted to help you,” she said softly, stepping into the room.
I didn’t answer. Instead of touching my things, she wandered to the corner where I’d kept Annie’s drawings, her toys, her cabinet, her little shrine.
“Don’t touch that,” I warned quietly.
But she either didn’t hear me or chose to ignore it. She opened the cabinet doors, eyes scanning the items curiously. Then she spotted it, the moonstone jar sitting on the lowest shelf. The urn.
“What’s this?” she asked, reaching for it.