The surgeon works carefully, because a fragment that soft could slide deeper with one wrong move. He inserts miniature forceps. Misses. Repositions. The room feels suspended on a single thread, and every person in it knows that if the piece tears or shifts, the second chance may vanish before anyone can even name it.
Richard grips the rail of the crib so hard his knuckles lose color. Isabelle stares as if willing herself into another version of this day, one where none of her choices led here. Leo watches with the stillness of a child who has spent his life learning that adults can miss what is right in front of them.
Then the forceps close.
The surgeon withdraws slowly.
A slick, transparent crescent emerges into the light.
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