"He kicked! Babe, the baby kicked!" Nolan's voice broke the early silence like a laugh in a church. Pure, unfiltered joy. A sound I hadn't heard since before he went blind. I blinked awake with my hand already on my belly. Warm. Small, urgent. There it was again—nine months of tiny rebellions, a life making itself known. Nolan's fingers found mine in the dark. He squeezed, hard. He always squeezed when words weren't enough. "Did you feel that?" he asked, voice thick with something like wonder and something like relief. "I did." I kept my voice steady. Calm. I had to be calm. My chest wanted to explode. There were memories—too many to carry—rushing like a river. Faces. Smells. The exact date. The clock on my phone read twelve minutes past three in the morning. Tonight. Hana would call tonight. She would say she needed help. She would sound helpless. She wouldn't be helpless. Not really. Nolan hummed. "He's going to be a troublemaker." "He's already a troublemaker." I laughed, the sound practiced and bright. It landed somewhere safe, among the plastered photos and the chipped mugs in our kitchen. Our apartment wasn't much—South Side bricks, a crooked balcony, a stove with a missing knob—but every corner was stitched with the life we were building. With the man beside me. With the baby moving like it owned the universe. My thumb brushed the phone on the bedside