The clock was creeping toward noon. A cold, pale winter light poured into the hospital room. Outside, the sky stayed stubbornly gray. The IV dripped slowly on its metal stand; a thin blanket covered Celina’s body; machines beeped at steady intervals. Thor was there, watchful, hollow-eyed, his body running on no sleep. He hadn’t closed his eyes once all night.

Every time a nurse came in he straightened, alert, demanding to know each procedure, every detail.

“Is she okay? And the baby?”

He asked it over and over, tireless. The nurses always answered patiently, understanding the anguish in his eyes. But their words did nothing to quiet the storm in his chest. Only looking at her—still unconscious, her hand in his—brought him any semblance of calm, as if that touch alone could shield her from everything.

Celina had stirred a few times, mumbling fragmented words. Each time Thor clasped her hand tighter and whispered:

“I’m here, my love. I’m here.”

Now, with lunchtime approaching, he stood