Saint Mary's had its own kind of silence — the heavy, humming kind that sat between the pulse of machines.
It was the second night since the accident, and Amelia had not left the room.
The chair by Alexander's bedside had become part of her.
She dozed sitting upright, a blanket from one of the nurses wrapped around her shoulders, the rhythmic beeping of the monitors replacing sleep.
She looked at him every few minutes, afraid that if she blinked for too long, something might change.
But it never did. He was still, peaceful in a way that broke her heart.
That afternoon, the doctor came in — an older man with a kind face and the kind of voice people learn after years of giving bad news gently.
"Miss Clarke," he said softly, pulling the curtain slightly aside. "May I?"
She nodded, sitting up, brushing hair from her eyes.
He looked at the monitors, then back at her. "You should try to rest a little. He's stable. That's good."
She hesitated. "But still… asleep."
"Yes," the doctor said, choosing his words carefully. "We've kept him in an induced coma to let the swelling go down and to protect his brain. His body is strong — his vitals are holding steady."
Amelia swallowed hard. "When will he—?"
"Usually three or four days," the doctor replied gently. "We let the body heal before we let the mind wake. He's responding well to treatment. I expect him to open his eyes soon."
Her eyes filled. "So he'll wake up?"
The doctor smiled faintly. "He's a fighter, isn't he?"
She nodded, whispering, "Always."
"Then yes," he said. "He'll wake. You can rest, Miss Clarke. He'll want you strong when he does."
She laughed softly, but it broke halfway. "Rest. Right."
The doctor gave her arm a brief, warm squeeze before leaving.
The moment the door closed, she looked at Alexander again, whispering, "You hear that? You're supposed to wake up soon. So don't make a liar out of him, okay?"
It was around six when she first noticed it — a dull ache at the base of her spine.
She shifted in the chair, thinking it was from sitting too long.
Two days of sleeping in hospital chairs could do that to anyone.
But as the evening deepened and the storm outside grew louder, the ache came back — deeper, sharper.
She rubbed her back, whispered to the baby, Not tonight, please. Not now.
When the door opened again, it wasn't a nurse.
"Amelia," came the soft, trembling voice of someone she hadn't seen in weeks.
Alexander's grandmother stood there, wrapped in a thick wool coat, her white hair pinned neatly, her eyes red but determined.
"Mrs. Harrington," Amelia breathed, standing up too fast.
The older woman walked straight to her, taking both of her hands in hers.
"My dear girl," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You shouldn't be alone here."
Amelia's throat closed. "I couldn't leave him."
"I know," the older woman said, her eyes full of quiet strength. "But I'm here now. You need to go home, take a proper shower, eat something warm. I'll stay with him. He'll wake soon — he always does what he sets his mind to."
Amelia hesitated. "I don't—"
"No arguments." The woman's tone was firm, maternal. "You're family now. And families take turns being strong."
That sentence undid her. Amelia nodded, tears threatening again.
"Just an hour," she said softly. "I'll be back before he even notices I'm gone."
Home felt wrong.
Too quiet. Too clean.
The kettle hissed, the sound foreign in the silence.
She showered slowly, the warm water stinging against her skin, washing off the smell of hospital and sleeplessness.
By the time she dressed, the ache in her lower back had returned — sharper now, radiating forward.
She pressed a hand against her stomach.
"Not yet," she whispered. "Please, just wait for him."
But the baby had its own rhythm.
Another pulse of pain came, longer this time.
Amelia breathed through it, then grabbed her coat and hurried out the door.
When she returned to the hospital, the grandmother looked up from the chair with relief.
"Feeling better?"
Amelia nodded weakly. "Cleaner, at least."
"Good," the older woman said softly, squeezing her hand. "He moved earlier — just his hand, but it was something."
Amelia's heart leapt. "He did?"
"Mm. He's coming back to us."
She smiled, small and trembling. "He promised he would."
Hours slipped by.
The grandmother dozed lightly in the chair.
Amelia sat beside Alexander, his hand between hers, the pain in her back becoming more insistent, now coming and going in steady intervals.
She started counting them without realising it.
Ten minutes.
Seven.
Five.
Her breathing grew shallower.
She stood to stretch and had to grip the railing of the bed as a sharp wave doubled her over.
The sound she made — a soft, broken gasp — woke the grandmother instantly.
"Amelia? What is it?"
She forced a smile. "I think… I think the baby doesn't want to wait."
The older woman's eyes widened. "Are you sure?"
Another wave of pain answered for her.
Amelia nodded, tears of panic springing to her eyes. "I think I'm in labour."
"Stay there," the grandmother said, already moving to the door. "I'll get help. You breathe, darling. You keep breathing."
Minutes blurred.
Nurses filled the room again, voices calm but urgent.
"Contractions every three minutes," someone said.
"Page maternity — now."
Amelia gripped the edge of Alexander's bed, her face pressed against his hand.
"Please," she whispered, voice shaking. "If you can hear me, I need you. I can't do this without you."
Her tears fell onto his skin.
And then — barely there — his fingers twitched.
She froze, staring at his hand.
The monitors continued their soft beeping, steady, but the faint movement felt real, like a promise.
"You felt that too?" one of the nurses whispered to another.
Amelia smiled through her pain, whispering, "He's still with us."
Her phone was already in her hand when they started to move her.
She hit her mother's number without thinking.
"Mum," she gasped when the line connected. "It's happening."
"Sweetheart?" her mother's voice was full of static and panic. "You mean— now?"
"Now," Amelia said, crying. "They're taking me upstairs. He's still—he's still asleep, but he moved. I felt it."
"I'm coming," her mother said, her voice trembling. "I'll be there. Just hold on."
"I'm trying," Amelia whispered, gripping the rails of the stretcher as another contraction hit. "I'm trying."
They wheeled her through the same hall she had crossed two days before — only now the lights seemed blinding, the air too sharp.
Snow streaked the windows in white flashes.
The storm hadn't quieted.
From the small window at the end of the delivery suite, snow still swept sideways across the glass, the wind pressing against it like the weight of another world.
The room was dim, the lights low to spare her eyes, machines blinking rhythmically beside the bed.
The air was thick with antiseptic and the faint, sharp scent of fear.
Amelia had been in labour for hours.
She'd stopped trying to count the contractions. They came like waves now — heavy, merciless, rolling through her body and leaving her trembling in their wake.
Each time, she gripped the edge of the bed, her knuckles pale, her hair damp against her face.
Between them, she lay back, breath shaking, eyes fixed on the ceiling tiles as if they were the only things keeping her from falling apart.
Her mother was at her side, her voice low and steady — a whisper of comfort against the chaos.
"Breathe, darling. That's it. Just like that. You're doing beautifully."
But Amelia shook her head, tears spilling.
"I'm not— I can't do this, Mum, I can't—"
"You can," her mother said, taking her hand firmly. "You are."
Another contraction built, sharp and relentless.
Amelia bent forward with a broken cry, the sound half pain, half disbelief.
The midwife, calm and professional, checked the monitors. "You're progressing," she said softly. "It's slow, but it's steady. The baby's strong. You're both doing well."
Amelia let out a small, desperate laugh. "You call this 'well'?"
The nurse smiled faintly. "Better than most. You're tougher than you think."
"I don't feel tough," she whispered, voice trembling. "I feel like I'm coming apart."
Her mother brushed a strand of hair from her face, eyes wet but steady.
"Then come apart," she murmured. "I'll hold you together."
Time blurred.
Pain became rhythm, became breath, became sound.
Amelia clung to the rhythm like a lifeline — in, out, in, out — each breath a battle.
She could hear the wind against the window, the muffled shouts from down the corridor, the distant hum of the hospital's generators.
Every few minutes, she asked the same question.
"How long?"
The midwife always answered the same.
"Not long now."
But "not long" stretched into hours.
At some point, she began to cry — not quiet tears, but the kind that came from deep inside, that tore through her chest and left her gasping.
Her mother leaned close, holding her hand with both of hers. "Shh, my love. It's alright."
"It's not," Amelia sobbed. "It's not alright, Mum."
"I know."
"Why is this happening to me?" The words came out in ragged bursts between contractions. "What did I do wrong?"
"Nothing, sweetheart."
"I was a good person," she cried, shaking her head, pain and fury tangled together. "I was good, wasn't I? I worked hard, I never hurt anyone. I loved him, I did everything right—"
Her voice broke as another contraction slammed through her. She squeezed her mother's hand until both of them trembled.
"Why does God keep taking things from me?" she whispered when it passed. "Why is He punishing me like this?"
Her mother pressed her forehead against hers, whispering through her own tears, "He's not punishing you, Amelia. He's giving you someone back. You'll see. You're bringing light into the world. Hold on to that."
Amelia's body shook with silent sobs. "I just want him here."
"I know," her mother whispered. "He'd be so proud of you right now. So proud."
The midwife adjusted the IV, her voice soft but clear. "Try to rest between the waves if you can. Close your eyes for a few seconds. Let the pain move through you, don't fight it."
Amelia laughed bitterly. "That's easy for you to say."
"I know," the midwife said gently. "But every pain brings you closer to meeting your baby. You're almost there."
Almost.
The word echoed inside her.
Almost was what the doctor had said about Alexander.
Almost stable. Almost waking.
Almost.
She hated that word.
Another wave hit, stronger than the rest, and she cried out — raw, wild.
Her mother's voice wove through it, trembling but steady.
"Breathe, love. Come on. That's it. Good. Again."
Amelia clutched at her mother's arm, eyes wide, terrified. "Mum, I can't do this without him. I can't."
"Yes, you can."
"I can't— I can't even breathe."
Her mother's voice cracked. "Then I'll breathe with you."
And she did.
Together they inhaled, exhaled, again and again until the contraction passed, leaving Amelia limp, tears streaking her cheeks.
Outside, thunder rolled low across the city — a sound like distant applause or warning.
The storm pressed closer, the windows rattling in their frames.
Amelia turned her head toward the door, whispering as if he could hear her through the walls, "Alexander… please. Please wake up. I need you."
The monitor beside her flickered faintly, a soft pulse of light reflecting off the metal railing.
Her mother saw it too but said nothing — just held her tighter.
As the hours dragged past midnight, exhaustion began to take over.
Her body trembled uncontrollably, her breathing shallow.
Every sound became distant, muffled by the roar of blood in her ears.
At one point she thought she heard the doctor again — calm, reassuring — telling her she was doing beautifully.
She didn't believe him.
"I can't," she kept repeating, voice thin and broken. "I can't, I can't—"
But she did.
Every time she said it, she did.
Because there was no one else to.
By the time dawn began to turn the snow outside into pale silver light, Amelia was drenched in sweat and tears.
The contractions were coming so close together now she could barely tell where one ended and the next began.
Her mother sat behind her, arms wrapped around her, whispering prayers into her hair.
The nurses moved quietly, efficient, calm — the world narrowing to breath, pain, breath again.
And in the middle of it all, Amelia thought of him.
She pictured his face, the way his hand always steadied hers, the warmth in his eyes when he laughed.
She imagined him standing in the doorway, smiling that quiet, sure smile.
"Just a little more," he would say. "You can do anything."