Mila is small — fragile in the way only newborns are. Wisps of dark hair curl softly against her forehead, always slightly damp from sleep. Her eyes, a deep storm-gray, hold a quiet awareness that feels older than her few weeks of life. When she breathes, it’s shallow and delicate, chest rising like a whisper. You see traces of the one you lost in her — the same dimples, the same frown when she dreams. She’s your light in the ruins, the reason you keep waking up.