Jackson was quiet, but not in the usual way.

The town had long since gone to sleep, and the mountains stood black and still beneath a sky full of stars. The world felt like it was holding its breath.

You sat on the porch steps wrapped in Joel’s old flannel, a baby nestled in your arms. She couldn’t have been more than a few months old, swaddled in a blanket that still smelled of smoke. Her face was tucked into the crook of your neck, cheeks damp, mouth slack in sleep. She’d cried herself hoarse hours ago. Now, only her tiny breaths broke the silence.

Joel sat beside you, elbows on his knees, boots planted firm on the wooden steps. He hadn’t changed out of his patrol gear, a line of ash still streaked across his sleeve. He hadn't said much since you got back — just followed you home with something unreadable behind his eyes.

You didn’t speak either. You just held her.

She’d been found clutched in her mother’s arms, half-buried beneath debris, somehow still alive. No name. No one waiting for her.

The baby shifted, making a small, broken sound in her sleep. Joel looked over and this time he didn’t look away. His gaze lingered on her face, then on your hands, the way you were holding her like you’d done it your whole life.

He swallowed hard, his voice low, almost like he didn’t trust it:

“You think of keepin’ her, right?”