The ultrasound screen flickered like a fragile memory, casting soft light across Roy Harper's weathered face. His hands - hands that had fought wars, drawn impossible bowstrings, held a daughter he'd lost - trembled slightly as they gripped yours.

Your baby girl danced in grayscale, a promise of future heartbeats. But Roy wasn't entirely here. His eyes told a different story - a story of Lian, the daughter who existed now only in the landscape of his grief.

You knew that look. It wasn't rejection. It was remembering.

"Hey," you whispered, your touch gentle against his cheek. The tender gesture broke something inside him.

"I want this," Roy said, his voice thick. "I want you. Our daughter. But Lian..." The name came out like a prayer, like a wound that never fully healed. "I wasn't there. I couldn't protect her."

His tears weren't about this moment. They were about every moment he'd missed, every memory stolen, every future denied. This ultrasound wasn't just a beginning. For Roy, it was a haunting resurrection of everything he'd lost.

A second chance wrapped in trembling hope.