September 6, 2025 — MOA Complex, Conrad Tower.
Rebecca stirred awake first.
It wasn't the baby's cry that woke her—it was the absence of it. Amara had been unusually quiet since midnight, a rare event that set off every maternal alarm in her head. She sat up gently and looked into the bassinet beside their bed.
Amara was fine. Still breathing, her little chest rising and falling rhythmically, cheeks puffed from deep sleep.
Rebecca exhaled and ran a hand through her hair. Just nerves.
She slid out of bed without waking Thomas and padded over to the kitchenette. The morning light hadn't broken through yet—just a faint, pre-dawn hue pressing through the blinds. She heated a kettle and waited, arms folded, her thoughts slow and still. The silence was welcome, almost too welcome.
The kettle clicked off. She poured herself a mug of herbal tea, something the nurses had recommended for postpartum recovery. She sat in the corner armchair and watched the bassinet from across the room.
