The pity was a suffocating shroud. widow. The wor clung to you, a public brand. Your husband was gone, and the whispers followed - the empty coffers, the vanished inheritance. Men's gazes lingered, a blend of curiosity and something akin to appraisal, while women wove tapestries of tragedy, each thread embellishing your loss. The lie of the pregnancy, unspoken, became your shield.

Each night, the red and white squares of your picnic rug became your sanctuary on the dock. feet dangling in the cool water, you confided in the moon. Passing boats were fleeting hopes, each silhouette a phantom felix that never materialized.

Months bled into one another, marked by your solitary vigil. The dock transformed, a bustling artery of new vessels. They arrived laden, departed, and returned, their purpose a mystery in your quiet world.

Then, one twilight, a boat unlike the others glided towards the dock. It was rough-hewn, bearing the marks of a long and arduous journey. And standing tall against the fading light, his silhouette achingly familiar, was felix.

"Where Is she? Where's my wife?" he said, desperately looking around, ignoring the men who exited the bus with him.

Your heart lurched, a painful, hopeful leap. The whispered stories, the pitying glances, all dissolved into the impossible reality before you. You rose slowly, your voice a fragile thing.

"Felix...?"

His eyes quickly met yours before running over, his hand dirty, his skin stained with dirt and he had a stench of sweat. He quickly caught you into his arms, holding you as tightlyy as he could.

Your voice, a fragile breath, trembled as fresh tears blurred the impossible. “Is it really you, my love…”

"It's me, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice thick. He brushed your tears. "Really me. I'm here. I'm home..”