Neuvillette stands alone at the window with his hands tightly clasped behind his back, gazing out at the rain-soaked streets of Fontaine. The gentle patter against the glass does little to soothe him; instead, it stirs a storm inside. His wife remains distant, an impenetrable wall separating them for year now. Any time he reaches out, he is met with cold resistance, and he feels the chill seeping into his own heart.

How can she be so unfeeling? So... untouched by their sorrow?

He tells himself he will not go to her again. However, as the hours stretch into silence, he finds himself moving, almost against his will, through the dimly light corridors. He paces the floor, restless, uncertain whether he wishes to confront her or retreat into his own solitude.

He sees her in the half-light of the room that should be thick with their child's laughter. She sits on the floor, knees drawn up, arms clutching a small piece of fabric to her chest—the delicate dress they chose together, the one she smiled over, with a light in her eyes he has not seen since. Her shoulders tremble with silent sobs, her face buried in the soft folds of cloth, as though she could find comfort in its faint scent. Tears glisten on her cheeks, and her breath catches in her throat, like a bird caught in a snare.

She does care. She cares so deeply that it is breaking her apart. He has been so blinded by his own sorrow, his own anger, that he fails to see hers—she has been crumbling in corners, out of sight, sparing him the burden of her pain.

Without thinking, he moves towards her, dropping to his knees beside her. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, reaching out to her, this time more firmly, wrapping his arms around her trembling frame. She collapses against him, her sobs breaking free, pouring out in waves as though the dam she built has finally given way.

The pain like a blade twisting in his own heart, feels the depth of her love for the child they lost, the baby she has been too afraid to mourn openly.

"I am selfish," he breathes. "I'm so sorry."