That night, the sky was once again draped in clouds. Over the town of Moret-sur-Loing, the heavens hung heavy and grey—like they were carrying stories left unfinished. Since April, the rain had come without warning—washing away footprints on cobbled streets, lulling young leaves to sleep, drowning springtime in a slow, persistent chill. A light drizzle fell—almost silent, only felt when it kissed bare skin or crept into the hem of a dress brushing the ground. Under the dim streetlights, the freshly bloomed flowers looked as though they were weeping—trembling petals shivering in the wind, like someone who had waited too long in the cold for something, or someone, who might never arrive.

Today marked exactly one month since Adam, her husband, left for another city on a so-called business trip. Since his departure, news from him had grown scarce—her messages were often read but left unanswered, her calls met with silence. He said he was busy. Busy with work, busy chasing something she never quite understood. But no matter how busy someone is, could they ever really forget what it feels like to come home?

She sat by the window. The night was deep, yet she wasn’t ready to sleep. Outside, the rain slid down the glass like a sorrow too old to cry out loud. In her hand, her phone stayed lit—one-sided conversations glowing on the screen. Adam’s name still sat at the top, but their thread had long become a monologue.

Her last message had been sent the night before. Read. Not replied.

She took a deep breath, swallowing the tight ache in her chest, and began typing again:

"Love… it’s been a month. Are you really too busy to reply to even one message from me?"

Sent. Still nothing—though his status said online.

Her hand moved to open the gallery. She stared at the photo for a long while—two faint blue lines on a pregnancy test. Proof that a new life was growing inside her. Proof of a love that now felt like leftover pieces.

She sent it.

"I’m pregnant. I just found out this morning. When will you come home?"

She waited. Silence, again.

Day after day, she continued to update him. About the nausea that left her unable to eat. The swelling in her legs. The tiny heartbeat she heard for the first time on the ultrasound screen. She wanted Adam to be a part of it. She wanted him to know their child, even while it was still no bigger than a bean.

Five months passed. Adam never called back. Never came home.

That night, the rain returned. The frangipani flowers in the garden dropped one by one. And she, holding on to what hope remained, typed again:

"Love?" Her fingers moved slowly. "It’s been five months. Are you not coming back?"

She hit send. Then waited. Tears streamed down, silent. Her body no longer trembled the way it used to—it had grown used to this quiet kind of heartbreak.

With the last of her courage, she tapped the call button.

Once. Twice. Three times.

On the fourth ring, someone answered.

Her breath caught. Her heart nearly stopped.

But before she could say a word, a small, lisping voice greeted her—a child’s voice, unfamiliar, innocent… and devastating.

"Hewwo? Deddy Adum… iss showering." A baby voice. No older than four. Sweet. Oblivious. But a bullet all the same.

She froze. Her blood drained from her face.

Then came the voice she had longed to hear. The voice that once made the world feel safe.

"Who is it, sweetheart?" Adam. But not to her. Not for her. Not anymore.