She had tried to switch shifts. She had pleaded. But the restaurant was short-handed, and grief had never been considered a valid excuse.
Not today.
Today marked two years since the worst night of her life.
The night she woke in a sterile hospital room in Bern, confused and hollow, while a doctor gently told her that her baby hadn’t survived childbirth.
No cries. No goodbye. Just silence and signatures.
Since then, Hannah had learned how to function. How to smile when required. How to swallow the sharp ache that surged whenever she heard a child laugh.
She lifted the water carafe.
Her wrist brushed the tablecloth.
And something unseen shattered.
A faint scent drifted upward—vanilla mixed with lavender. The same lotion Hannah had used every night during her pregnancy because it helped her sleep.
Sophie’s fingers loosened.
The rabbit slipped from her hands and fell to the floor.
Her eyes—empty moments before—locked onto Hannah’s face with startling intensity. It wasn’t curiosity.
It was recognition.
The child leaned forward and grabbed the strings of Hannah’s apron.
Hard.
So hard her small knuckles turned white.
Hannah froze.