I don’t move straight away. I don’t know what I’m going to see. And for the first time in a long time . . .
I’m afraid.
I force myself closer to look inside. And everything in me just stops.
Wynter is sitting on the bed. But she doesn’t look like Wynter. She’s smaller somehow. Fragile. Like someone’s taken pieces of her and left only what they couldn’t carry.
Her skin is pale, almost translucent under the harsh hospital light. Her hair hangs limp around her face, lacking the shine I remember, and her frame—Christ—she’s so thin, it makes my chest ache to look at her.
Too thin for someone carrying a baby.
Her hands rest protectively over the small curve of her stomach. Like she’s guarding it and the jewellery box sits open beside her, the soft tune drifting into the corridor.
She’s smiling. A small, distant smile, like she’s not really here.
She looks up suddenly, like she senses she’s being watched. She sees me and something flickers in her eyes, and I watch the light leave in seconds.
The smile drops instantly. Her hand flies to the box, slamming it shut as if she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
I don’t realise I’ve moved until I’m inside the room. The door clicks shut behind me.
“Sometimes it needs winding at the back,” I say quietly, my voice rough. “The tune plays faster.”
She stares at me like I’m a stranger. Like I don’t belong here.
“Get out,” she whispers. It’s not loud, barely above a whisper.
“I just wanted to see how you are,” I say, taking another step before stopping myself.
She lets out a small, broken laugh. “Why?” she asks, her voice trembling. “You didn’t care before.”
“I did,” I say immediately. “I always cared, Wynter.”
Her expression shifts to panic, and she curls slightly around her stomach, her hands pressing tighter.
“You’re not taking my baby,” she says, her voice rising. “You can’t take my baby.”
“I’m not here to take anything,” I say quickly. “I’m not here to take our baby—”
“My baby,” she snaps, louder now, her breathing uneven. “Mine. You don’t get to just come back and decide it’s yours.”
I nod slowly, forcing myself to stay calm. “Okay,” I say softly. “Your baby.”
Her shoulders shake. The fight drains out of her as quickly as it came. “Who knew,” she whispers after a moment, staring down at her hands, “you could get locked away for being sad.”
The words are so quiet I almost miss them. I look around the room again. The neutral walls. The lack of anything personal.
“It’s a nice room,” I mutter, because I don’t know what else to say.
She lets out another hollow laugh. “I’d rather you didn’t come again,” she says. “You make it worse.”
“I don’t mean to,” I say, gently. “I know I messed up. I know that.”
She doesn’t look at me as she shifts her body awkwardly, turning away from me and lying down. She pulls the thin blanket up like a barrier between us.
“You’re wasting your time,” she murmurs. “I don’t want to see you.”
Silence fills the room.