Now Ethan stood before the glass door, staring at the still form of his wife and the unborn child she carried, due in just a few months.

Visions of what would never be flooded his mind: Amara’s laughter echoing through their home, the sound of tiny footsteps, the warmth of a life they’d planned together. He refused an autopsy, unable to bear the thought of separating mother from child.

Fighting back a scream, he turned to leave then froze. There it was again: a faint movement beneath the white shroud, a ripple across her stomach. His pulse quickened. Could the baby still be alive? Or was his mind conjuring ghosts out of grief?

The movement came once more – clear, deliberate, real.