By the time they left, the room felt hollow. The scent of roses still lingered, mixed with the sterile tang of antiseptic and the faint, sweet smell of the twins.

Brayden stood by the window, back turned, shoulders rigid. He hadn’t said a word since they’d gone. Not when Clara slipped quietly back in to check on me, not when the nurse came to record the babies’ vitals. Not even when our son gave a soft whimper in his sleep.

A week later, the discharge papers were signed.

Brayden ...