When Amelia opened her eyes, the world was golden.
The snow outside had turned to pale sunlight, streaking across the window and onto the white sheets.
For the first time in days, there was no sound of rain or thunder — only the faint hum of the hospital and the quietest breathing she'd ever heard, coming from the small crib beside her.
Her son slept soundly, wrapped in a soft cream blanket, his tiny mouth opening and closing with each dreamlike sigh.
For a moment, she forgot everything else — the machines, the pain, even the emptiness where Alexander should have been.
She reached out, her hand trembling, brushing a fingertip against the edge of the blanket.
"Good morning," she whispered, her voice still raspy with sleep. "We made it."
A soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.
A man in light-blue scrubs stepped in, holding a clipboard. His voice was warm, professional.
"Good morning, Miss— or should I say Mum?" he smiled. "I'm Dr. Rowe, the paediatrician on duty. I just need to check on this little gentleman."
Amelia straightened, instinctively protective. "Is everything alright?"
He smiled kindly. "More than alright. Just routine checks — weight, reflexes, heart, lungs, all the boring but important things."
He leaned over the crib, his movements practiced and gentle.
The baby stirred slightly, letting out a tiny sigh but not waking.
"Well," the doctor murmured, listening through his stethoscope, "he's got a strong heartbeat. Perfect oxygen levels, good tone, good cry." He glanced up with a reassuring smile. "Textbook healthy."
Amelia let out a shaky breath she hadn't realised she was holding.
"Thank you."
Dr. Rowe nodded. "And how are you feeling?"
She gave a small, tired smile. "Like I've been hit by a train."
He chuckled softly. "That's about right. I'll send in the nurses to check on you next. You did brilliantly, Miss Harrington. Truly."
When he left, Amelia slumped back against the pillow, closing her eyes for a second before the door opened again.
Two nurses entered, carrying a tray and a gentle efficiency that filled the room.
"Alright, sweetheart," one of them said. "We're just going to check your blood pressure, temperature, and stitches. Nothing scary."
Amelia nodded, her body aching but compliant.
They spoke to her softly while they worked — asking if she'd eaten, how her pain was, how the baby had fed.
"Beautiful little boy," one nurse murmured as she adjusted the blanket. "He's got his father's chin, hasn't he?"
Amelia smiled faintly. "He does."
When they were done, one of them helped her sit up.
"There now. Why don't you wash up a bit? I'll bring you some tea. The visitors' list is growing — you've got quite the fan club waiting outside."
"Visitors?" Amelia blinked, confused.
The nurse smiled. "Family, friends… a few Harringtons, I believe."
Amelia's heart tightened. She stood slowly, every muscle protesting, and shuffled to the small bathroom adjoining the room.
The warm water on her skin felt like salvation.
She washed her face, her arms, her neck, feeling almost human again.
Her reflection in the mirror startled her — pale, dark circles under her eyes, but somehow softer. There was something new in her face. Strength, maybe. Or peace.
When she came back out, the nurses had tidied the room. The crib gleamed beside the bed, and a small vase of tulips now sat on the windowsill, the card reading From everyone at HR — with love.
Amelia smiled weakly.
Then came the knock.
The door opened, and the first person to step inside was Alexander's grandmother.
Elegant as always, her silver hair pulled back neatly, but her eyes were already wet.
"Oh, my dear girl," she said softly, coming straight to Amelia and taking both her hands. "I was so frightened for you."
Amelia tried to speak, but her throat closed.
The older woman pressed a hand to her cheek, her touch trembling. "You've given us all a miracle."
She turned toward the crib, and for a long moment, she simply stared.
Then she exhaled — a sound that was half-sob, half-laughter. "He's beautiful."
Amelia smiled. "He looks like him."
"He does," the grandmother said, tears filling her eyes. "Exactly like Alexander when he was born."
The door opened again. Her father entered next, a tall man with kind eyes and a look of absolute awe.
He froze in the doorway at the sight of the crib.
"Dad," Amelia said softly.
He blinked, swallowing hard. "He's so small," he said, as if afraid his voice would break him.
When he kissed her forehead, she could smell the familiar scent of rain and old aftershave, and she realised she hadn't felt that safe in weeks.
"I'm proud of you, sweetheart," he whispered. "Your mum and I— we're so proud."
More visitors followed — her mother with fresh flowers, the HR director with a soft toy shaped like a bear, even one of Alexander's assistants with a discreet basket of baby things from the office.
And then the door opened one last time.
Alexander's mother stepped in.
The room fell silent for a heartbeat.
Amelia tensed instinctively — the last time she'd seen her had been formal, distant. But this time, the woman's face wasn't cold. It was human. Tired. Soft.
She came closer, hesitating by the bed. "May I?" she asked quietly, looking at the crib.
Amelia nodded. "Of course."
The woman leaned over, her eyes filling with tears as she looked at her grandson. For a long time, she said nothing. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:
"He's… perfect."
When she turned back to Amelia, there was something new in her expression — vulnerability.
"I don't think I ever thanked you," she said. "For loving him. For standing by him through all this."
Amelia's eyes stung. "He made it easy."
The older woman smiled faintly. "You'll tell him everything when he wakes."
Amelia nodded, her voice trembling. "Every detail."
By late afternoon, the room was full of flowers, soft toys, and light laughter.
The nurses brought tea, and the grandmother insisted on feeding Amelia herself — cutting the food into small bites, fussing over her like a child.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Amelia laughed.
It was small, quiet, but real.
When everyone finally began to leave, the room fell still again.
The sun was beginning to set, and the golden light wrapped around her and the baby like a blanket.
Her mother kissed her forehead. "Rest, darling. I'll be back in the morning."
As the door closed, Amelia looked at her son, asleep again, and whispered:
"You have the biggest family in the world already, little one."
She smiled faintly, brushing a hand over his tiny fist.
"And when your dad wakes up… you'll see what real love looks like
By evening, the hospital had grown still again.
Visitors had gone, the gift bags were stacked neatly on the windowsill, and the room glowed with that soft, honeyed light that arrives just before night.
Amelia sat propped against pillows, her son asleep on her chest, his breath a warm feather against her collarbone. The quiet should have soothed her, but her mind kept slipping downstairs—two floors, three elevators, a corridor left, another right—until she reached the room where he lay.
When the nurse came to chart vitals, Amelia lifted her eyes.
"Please… could I go down to see him? Just for five minutes."
The nurse's face was kind, but her answer was already there.
"Oh, love. I know you're desperate to, but not yet."
"Why not?" Amelia asked, too fast, too tight. "I'll wear a mask, gloves—whatever you want."
"It isn't you I'm worried about," the nurse said gently, glancing at the sleeping newborn. "He's barely a day old. The ICU floor isn't a sterile environment for a baby this little. We can't take him down, and you shouldn't be separated from him so soon. Once you're cleared for discharge, we'll work something out."
"So I can't even look through the door?"
"Not tonight. Rest, recover, feed your little one. I promise—when it's safe, I'll be the first to take you."
Amelia nodded, swallowing the ache in her throat.
"Thank you."
When the nurse left, she kissed the baby's temple.
"Your dad's downstairs," she whispered. "He's coming back to us. I know it."
…
Two floors below.
The world returned in fragments: a pale ceiling, a steady beep, the cool weight of air on his face.
Alexander blinked. The lights were too bright; the room felt too still. He tried to move and a dull ache bloomed behind his eyes, heavy and slow.
"Mr. Harrington?" a soft voice said near his shoulder. "Can you hear me?"
He turned his head a fraction and winced. "Where…?" His voice came out rough, unused. "What happened?"
"You're at Saint Mary's Hospital," the nurse replied, adjusting the blanket with practiced tenderness. "You've been asleep for a few days. There was a road accident—heavy snow on the motorway. Paramedics brought you in. You're safe."
Memory shivered back: whiteout, brake lights flaring, the wheel juddering, that impossible skid—then nothing.
His chest tightened. "Amelia," he rasped suddenly, panic threading through his voice. "Where is she? Is she alright?"
The nurse stilled, then smiled—a warm, careful smile that made the room feel less cold.
"She's upstairs. She's safe."
He shut his eyes in relief, breath shaking. "I need to see her."
"I know you do," the nurse said softly. "But you've been in an induced coma to let your brain rest and the swelling settle. The doctor needs to examine you before we think about moving you."
He swallowed, fighting the fog. "Tell me she wasn't alone."
The nurse's smile brightened, conspiratorial. "She was surrounded. And… she wasn't alone for long."
He frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said, voice going soft as a lullaby, "that your little family grew while you were sleeping."
His eyes flew open. "No." A breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. "Already?"
"Already," she nodded. "A healthy, beautiful baby boy. Strong lungs, excellent colour. Your Amelia was brave as they come."
Alexander looked at the ceiling as a single tear slipped sideways into his hair.
"She went through that without me."
"She did," the nurse said gently, "and she did it for you."
He swallowed hard. "Please—let me go to them."
"I want that for you, truly," she said. "But first we need scans, a neuro check, and the all-clear from your consultant. As for the baby—he's far too tiny to bring down here. Give it a day or two, and we'll try to make the world a little smaller between you."
He nodded, jaw clenched, voice raw. "Can you tell her I'm awake?"
"I will," she promised. "And I'll tell her you asked for her first."
Upstairs, Amelia didn't know. She counted the baby's breaths and watched the light fade to indigo across the tulips on the sill. The urge to run was a physical thing—down the corridor, into the lift, across the split of floors that felt like oceans.
She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to her son's hair.
"Hold on," she whispered to the quiet. "Just hold on.