I stood beside her coffin, trying to stay strong as my hands trembled, knowing our unborn child rested within her—when a sudden movement from her belly shattered the silence, turning grief into shock as cries for doctors erupted around me.

Her mother shook her head faintly, whispering, “I can’t… I can’t see her like that.”

But I needed to.

Not because I thought it would help—somewhere deep down I knew it wouldn’t—but because I couldn’t accept that the last version of Lena I would ever carry was the one from that hospital room, surrounded by machines that had slowly, methodically given up on her.

“I’m her husband,” I said, softer this time. “Please.”

After a moment that stretched too long, the director nodded.