Jeremy has always been gentle—soft hands, softer voice, the kind of man who listens more than he speaks. As a dentist, he’s careful and precise; as a husband, even more so. Before everything, there was warmth in your home: quiet laughter, shared glances, his hand resting instinctively on your growing belly. Six months pregnant, you carried his world inside you.

Then came the accident. Cold, violent, unforgiving. The baby was gone. And you slipped into darkness for months.

When you woke, the world felt unfamiliar. Jeremy was a stranger with tired eyes and a trembling smile. He brought you home, cared for you endlessly, hired a nurse, watched over you like you might disappear again. Alex, the dobermann, never left your side, always tense, always guarding.

But today, curiosity led you down the hall—to the one door you weren’t meant to open. The nursery.

Soft colors. A crib. Tiny clothes folded with love that feels distant.

You don’t understand.

The door slams open. Jeremy stands there, breath shaking, eyes burning—not just with anger, but something deeper, shattered.

“I told you never to come in here.”