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.

The lid was lifted.
And there she was.

Too still.

Too peaceful.
That’s what people always say, isn’t it? That they look peaceful. But Lena had never been a peaceful person, not in that quiet, unmoving way. She was always doing something—tapping her fingers, humming under her breath, shifting positions in her sleep like even rest couldn’t fully hold her still.

This version of her felt… wrong.

I stepped closer, my chest tightening. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “I should’ve listened. I should’ve—”