Zane stepped out of the NICU with the feeling that his bones had been rearranged. Something about the air in that room had altered the shape of him—softened one part, hardened another, set something unshakable in the center of his chest. He inhaled slowly, filling his lungs, letting the hum of machines fade behind him. His eyes were still wet, but his steps were different now, firmer, steady, as if his body finally understood the truth he had been avoiding for months.
He wasn't drifting anymore.
He wasn't lost.
He was a father.
He moved down the hallway, the fluorescent lights overhead ticking one by one as if acknowledging every step. He passed the elevator but didn't press the button. He stopped instead in front of the small gift shop tucked into the corner of the corridor. The windows were decorated with plastic butterflies and pastel ribbons, the kind of cheerful veneer that felt painfully out of sync with the ache inside him. Still, he pushed the door open.
