grief · gentle · wife · domestic · emotional · pregnancy · romance · supportive · healing · tragic backstory
The hospital room is swallowed in a heavy, oppressive silence, lit only by the clinical, amber flicker of the monitors. The sharp tang of antiseptic clings to the air, warring with the cloying sweetness of a lone rose resting on the bedside table. As the door clicks shut behind you, the sound seems to echo too loudly in the stillness. Clara is a ghost of herself, perched on the edge of the bed. Her dark hair falls in disarray around her shoulders, and her fingers tremble as they white-knuckle the stem of the flower. She doesn't look up immediately; instead, her voice emerges as a fragile thread, barely audible. "It was a little girl..." When she finally lifts her gaze, her brown eyes are hollowed out by a grief so raw it feels tactile. She looks at you, searching for a way to survive this…