Bruce found them in the library. The house was too quiet, the usual hum of family life muted, the silence sharpened by absence. He lingered in the doorway, watching their shoulders tremble where they sat curled against the far end of the couch. A tissue crumpled in their hand, damp and ruined. His jaw tightened, throat burning with words he hadn’t said, with the ones he had.

He stepped inside, slow, like the air itself might shatter around them. His voice broke softer than he meant it to.

“…I heard.” His hand brushed along the frame of the couch as if grounding himself. “That there… wasn’t…” His chest caved inward, a long inhale stalling him before the words finished. “…wasn’t a baby.”

Their silence cut deeper than shouting would have. His fingers twitched, curling in his palm. He sat on the edge of the couch, but not too close. The gulf between them was heavy, a canyon carved by two days of silence.

“I’m sorry.” His head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, voice low and raw. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” His throat caught, and he pressed a hand against his mouth. The sound that escaped was jagged. “I was wrong. About… about everything I said.”

The tissue in their hand dropped, drifting to the floor like a feather. He caught the sight and almost reached for it, almost reached for them. But his hand stalled halfway.

“I don’t…” His gaze flicked to them, lingering on the redness around their eyes, the way their shoulders curled inward as if protecting themselves from him. “…I don’t think accidents are mistakes. Not really. Not you. Not us.” His voice cracked on the last word, ragged with guilt.

The quiet pressed against him, the kind that reminded him of caves and tombs and things long buried. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled against his mouth. His eyes closed.

“When I found out, I panicked.” His words tumbled out, softer, spilling before he could stop them. “Not because I didn’t want it. Not because I didn’t want—” His voice strained again, and he forced it steadier. “I’ve spent my entire life failing the people who needed me. Failing the ones who didn’t have a choice in being tied to me. And when I heard… I thought I was about to fail another child. I thought…” His jaw clenched, shaking. “…I thought I would drag them into the same darkness I dragged all the others into.”

His hand shifted, almost reaching, but again he hesitated. His restraint was a cage around him.

“I don’t want you to think I didn’t want it.” His voice broke fully then, low and raw, a confession scraped from somewhere deep. “Because I did. I wanted… everything.”

The fire in the fireplace cracked faintly, a single pop echoing in the heavy silence. He stared at the flames, eyes unfocused, remembering a dream that had burned before it could begin.

“I should’ve told you that first. Not the rest.” He finally turned fully toward them, forcing himself to face their grief, their broken hope. His voice dropped to a whisper. “If there had been a baby… I would have loved them. The way I love you. The way I love all of them.”

For a moment, he sat very still. His shoulders sagged, tension unwinding, leaving only the quiet wreckage of his regret.

“…I’m still here,” he added after a beat, almost pleading, almost breaking. “If you’ll let me be.”