Selene Alvaroz’s POV
“He’s so small.”
My voice is barely a whisper, fragile like the tiny body cradled in my arms. I named him Rafael. His fingers curl weakly around my skin, delicate but alive. His chest rises and falls with shallow, uneven breaths, his heartbeat fluttering against my palm. His little face is scrunched, eyes still tightly shut.
Beside me, in the incubator, Rosalie stirs. My daughter. Wrapped in layers of sterile blankets, her tiny fists clench and unclench, her lips parting in a soundless cry before settling into sleep again.
Instead, the ache in my chest is unbearable. There should be three.
I tighten my hold on Rafael, pressing my lips to his soft forehead. But no matter how I try, no amount of warmth will fill the empty space in my arms where Santi should be.
The baby I never got to hold. The child I’ll never know.
“Focus on the ones who made it,” the nurse said, her hand squeezing my shoulder like that could erase the hollow pit inside me.
Two months later, Rafael and Rosalie are full-term. They’ve both finally left their incubators. But the space where Santi should be is still as empty as ever.
As soon as I got out of the hospital, I had a small funeral for Santi. His coffin was too small. A priest whispered hollow phrases, carried away by the breeze. There was no one there but me. No one shared my sorrow, no hands reached for mine, no family stood by my side.
I shed no tears, not even as the coffin descended to the earth. I survived. Rafael and Rosalie survived. And now, I have no choice but to keep going.
I stare at the grave, at the name etched into the stone. Santi Alvaroz.
I step forward, kneeling on the damp earth. My hands press into the grass, my heartbeat slow, steady. My body throbs with fatigue, yet my mind remains as clear as a still lake. The world tried to break me. It took my father. It took my home. It took him.
But that day I swore, I wouldn’t be another victim. No one will control me again. Not the man who abandoned me in that hotel room. Not the people who turned their backs when I needed them most. I press my fingers to my lips, then place them against Santi’s grave.
A promise. A vow. And then I walk away—not broken.
Reborn.