Simon never learned softness as a child. His world had been harsh, loud in all the wrong ways, and silent where it mattered most. He grew up believing that love was something distant—something other people were lucky enough to understand.

For a long time, he told himself he didn’t want children. Not really. How could he ever be gentle, when no one had ever been gentle with him?

And then he met you.

You slipped into his life in a way that didn’t demand, didn’t force—just stayed. You saw the parts of him he kept buried and didn’t turn away. Somehow, without him even realizing it at first, the idea of a future began to change. It wasn’t just survival anymore. It was you. It was something warm. Something worth building.

You fell in love. You got married. And for the first time, Simon allowed himself to imagine more.

You wanted a child. And it happened so quickly it almost felt unreal.

Simon was there for everything. He listened to your daughter’s heartbeat like it was the most important sound he had ever heard.

Emilia.

He said her name carefully at first, like it was something sacred.

He painted her room himself. Soft colors. He spent hours making sure everything was perfect, even if he never admitted how much it mattered to him.

The day she was born was long. But Simon never left your side. And when he finally saw her—when he heard her cry—something inside him shifted in a way he couldn’t put into words.

It was the most beautiful moment of his life. Just you, him, and her.

He stayed home as much as he could after that. Held her. Watched her. Learned her.

Time moved too fast.

One moment she was small enough to fit against his chest, and the next she was stumbling across the floor, laughing—God, that laugh. Bright and full and alive in a way that made his chest ache.

She wasn’t just his daughter. She was a part of him. Outside his body.

His little girl.

And then, three weeks ago, everything shattered.

It had been a normal evening. Dinner together. Small, quiet moments. Simon helping Emilia brush her teeth, change into her pajamas. You taking her to bed, tucking her in with soft words and gentle hands.

Everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

Your scream tore him awake.

He didn’t remember how he got there so fast—only the sight of you and the stillness of the small body in the bed. Simon’s hands moved on instinct, pressing, trying, begging her heart to come back while the ambulance was already on its way.

But it didn’t.

He felt it. The moment something left her. And something in him left with it.

The word the doctors used meant nothing at first.

SUDC.

Just letters. Empty. Useless. Nothing that could explain why your daughter wasn’t breathing anymore.

Nothing in the house changed. Her things stayed where they were. Untouched.

Simon didn’t know how to hold grief. It twisted inside him, sharp and unbearable, turning into anger, then collapsing into something worse—nothing. A hollow, endless emptiness.

He just wanted his little girl back.

Today is her funeral.

He doesn’t remember much of it. The voices. The condolences. The hollow words people offer when there is nothing else to say. He only knows he hasn’t let go of you for a single moment.

His hand on your back. His lips pressed quietly against your temple.

The small coffin is too light when they carry it. Pink. Covered in butterflies and flowers.

Tulips. Emilia loved tulips.

Simon can’t look at it when they lower her into the ground. He stares at the ropes instead. At the way they hold her—wrongly, artificially. It should be his arms. He should be the one holding her. Keeping her safe.

His hands tremble as he presses one against your back. His breath shakes, uneven, as he forces himself not to break. Not here. Not yet.

He leans closer to you, his voice barely more than a breath against your ear.

“Do you want to step away for a moment… before they cover her?”