After the funeral, Nate drove home in oppressive silence. The car smelled faintly of Jenna’s cardigan, which he refused to touch, her scent still lingering.
At the house, her shampoo’s floral scent hit him like a blow. Every corner held a memory — the untouched coffee mug, grapes she’d craved, her slippers by the bed. He wandered through the silent rooms, numb.
He collapsed on her pillow, whispering, “I should’ve said more…” but the words died in his throat. The hospital scenes replayed in his mind: laughter, machines, frantic footsteps, then the doctors’ cold words: “We couldn’t save her… or the baby.”
Friends came and went. The silence grew.
On the third night, he heard a faint cry. Outside, in the fog, was a basket with a newborn wrapped in the teddy-bear blanket Jenna chose. The baby wore a hospital bracelet with Jenna’s name and the same birth date from that night the doctors said both had died.
Shaken, Nate brought her inside and called Dr. Banner, who was as baffled as he was. Hospital records showed no missing infants. DNA tests later confirmed Nate was the father.
No explanation ever came, but the baby — Freya, as Jenna had once hoped to name her — became his anchor. As life slowly returned, laughter replaced silence. Nate held Freya and finally felt less alone, believing some loves find their way back.