His tiny fist uncurled and clutched her dress like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
Tears spilled down Janelle’s face. She began to hum without meaning to, the old gospel tune her grandmother taught her, the one she’d sung to Mara in the dark.
The song of walking through valleys and finding a light you didn’t deserve but needed anyway.
Rain began tapping the window, soft at first, then steady.
Janelle rocked and hummed and fed this stranger’s baby with milk meant for her own dead daughter.
And for the first time in months, her grief felt… purposeful. Still painful. Still hers. But no longer pointless.
Then boots thundered on the stairs.
Fast. Heavy. Urgent.
Janelle’s breath stopped.
The loft door slammed open.
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