Lucinda Keller had been gone for six years, taken by an illness that arrived quietly and left devastation behind it. David rarely spoke her name aloud, not because he had forgotten her, but because saying it made the absence sharper and more dangerous. He had built companies, closed deals, and expanded his fortune with mechanical precision, convincing himself that productivity was a suitable substitute for mourning. Visiting her grave was the only ritual he allowed himself, a brief acknowledgment of loss before returning to control.
He had almost reached the familiar white stone when his steps slowed and then stopped entirely. Something lay across the grave, small and still, wrapped in a thin blanket that looked far too light for the cold. At first he thought it might be a bundle of discarded clothing, but then he noticed the faint movement of breathing and the shape of a child curled tightly against the marble.