Morning light through the curtains. The soft shuffle of footsteps across wooden floors, the faint sound of a kettle clicking off. And the baby’s cry whenever hunger or discomfort arrived was like a sudden storm that no one could predict. Matthew stood near the couch, slightly uncertain, arms extended in the careful way of someone afraid to break what he did not yet understand. Grace hovered nearby, watching with cautious curiosity. Ava sat on the edge of the armchair, exhausted in a way that had settled into her bones and refused to leave. The baby cried again, small fists tightening in the air. Ava reached out immediately. “It is probably hunger,” she murmured, lifting him gently. But the moment the baby settled against her chest, the crying did not ease; it only grew louder. Confusion crept into her face. “That is strange,” Grace said softly. “He just ate a little while ago.” Matthew stepped forward slowly. “I can try.” Ava hesitated, then she nodded. “Just hold him ca
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