The room was still, save for the soft hum of the machines and the slow, steady rhythm of the heart monitor. Cynthia knelt at Mike’s bedside, her hands clutching his, fingers trembling with the weight of everything unsaid.

The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to her nostrils, but it was the silence that suffocated her most. The quiet that had stretched for days. Weeks.

"Please," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please don’t leave me like this."

She leaned closer, her forehead brushing against the back of his hand. His skin was warm—alive—but he hadn't moved in so long it scared her.

"I'm pregnant, Mike."

The confession came in a shuddered...