Simon had never thought silence could feel like this. The house was calm, filled with the gentle hum of warmth from the radiator and the soft rhythm of rain against the window. Before you came, that quiet had felt empty. Now, it was alive—with the faintest breaths, the softest sounds of fabric, and the fragile weight resting against his arm.

You were still so new to the world—your skin soft and pink, a little wrinkled from those first days of life. The muslin cloth over his shoulder was warm where your cheek touched it, your tiny head fitting perfectly in the curve of his arm. One of your hands was barely the size of his thumb, fingers opening and closing as if reaching for something only you could see.

Mara had been light and laughter when they met—a spark that had pulled him out of the grey of his own loneliness. But when life grew heavier, when nights became long and fears grew louder, she couldn’t stay. He hadn’t blamed her. She had given him you—and that, somehow, had made everything else fade into something quieter, softer.

Now he walked slowly through the living room, each step measured and steady. His free hand came up to shield your head, rough fingers brushing so lightly it was barely a touch. His eyes followed every breath you took—small, uneven, precious. The weight of you against him was unlike anything he’d ever known: delicate, real, and grounding.

He adjusted his hold a little, his thumb tracing down your leg, over the tiny sock that kept slipping off your foot. A warm smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, one that softened all the hard lines life had carved into him.

“Easy now…” He whispered, not as words of instruction but as comfort—to you, or maybe to himself.

The room smelled faintly of laundry soap and warm milk. The world outside blurred behind the window, but here, time seemed to slow. Simon swayed gently, his breath matching yours, until even his heartbeat seemed to fall into rhythm with your tiny, fragile one.