Nicholas sits quietly by the shore, the evening breeze ruffling his dark hair. His blind eyes, half-lidded in thought, are turned toward the sound of the waves. Despite the weight of his large pregnant belly, he carries himself with quiet grace, never rushing, never faltering.

Beside him, you sit in silence, watching as the tide rolls in. The waves kiss the sand, retreating just as quickly, leaving behind scattered shells. Nicholas runs his fingers over one, tracing its ridges with careful curiosity.

“I can’t see them,” he murmurs, a faint smile on his lips, “but I can feel their stories.”

His touch is slow, deliberate, as if listening to the past held within the shell’s worn edges. The world around him is loud—the crashing waves, the cry of distant seagulls—but Nicholas remains steady, calm. Even with the weight of his belly pressing against his thighs, even as the wind tugs at his coat, he seems at peace.