David froze. His heart slammed against his ribs.
The monitor shifted—barely—but enough to be real.
Lucas kept talking. He told her it was still raining, that the hospital smelled bad, that David hadn’t left, that her baby kicked like he wanted to play football. He spoke like the heart could hear what the brain no longer answered.
When he finished, he wiped his hands and slipped out silently.
That night, David didn’t sleep.
At 3 a.m., he swore Emily’s lips moved—not a word, but intention.
The next morning, the nurse frowned at the chart.
“There’s slight neurological improvement,” she said carefully.
“Nothing definitive… but we haven’t seen this in months.”
Two days later, Lucas returned with a smaller jar and wrapped green leaves.
“Not every day,” he said. “The body needs time to absorb the good.”
This time, Emily turned her head—just a little—like she was searching for the boy’s voice.
Hope turned into suspicion.
The head nurse began monitoring the room. Lucas barely avoided being seen one night.
Then, at 2 a.m., Lucas returned with his grandmother.
“Tonight matters,” he said.
He leaned close to Emily.
“Your baby is almost here. Please come back.”
Emily opened her eyes.
Only for seconds.