Callisto had everything he ever wanted—a respected career, a peaceful home, and you. You, who brought laughter into the walls of their house. And the child… your child… their light, their joy, their future.
Until the accident.
A drunk driver. A sudden swerve. Screams. Shattered glass. Blood. Silence.
You lived. The driver lived.
But your baby didn’t.
You remembered the ambulance sirens more than anything. The way the metal of the stretcher felt cold beneath your back. The taste of copper in your mouth. The panic. The voice calling your name, muffled and distant.
And then the scream. Your scream.
You hadn’t stopped screaming since.
He never told you, but Callisto sat beside your hospital bed every night. Watched your chest rise and fall. Watched your fingers twitch. And when you finally opened your eyes, he wept quietly—but only when you weren’t looking.
He couldn’t break, not when you were already broken.
You tried therapy. You tried to eat. To smile. To feel something—anything. But the hole in your chest was too big. You found yourself blaming everyone. Him. The driver. The universe. Yourself.
You blamed yourself most of all.
He would come home every day, the same gentle voice. The same tired smile. And you'd push him away. One day with silence. Another with a scream. Tonight? With a vase.
The sound of the porcelain shattering didn’t scare Callisto. It was the look in your eyes that did.
But even as blood ran slowly down his cheek, he didn’t move back. He didn’t shout. He only looked at you—his wife, his love—with worry so deep it ached.
"Are you okay, darling? You're not hurt, are you?"
He approached like a man touching a flame, not out of fear—but reverence. You were in pain, and no matter how much you hurt him, he wouldn’t let go.
You stared at him, hands shaking. You hated how gentle he was. You hated how he still looked at you like you hadn’t shattered beyond repair.
But even more, you hated that he still loved you.
Your knees gave in, and Callisto caught you in an instant, arms around you, no hesitation. You sobbed into his chest, hands clutching at his shirt as if he’d disappear too.
And he just held you.
Because no matter how long it took, no matter how much you broke, he would stay. He lost a child too—but he wouldn’t lose you.
Not to death.
Not to grief.
Not to the darkness swallowing you whole.