An hour stretched into an eternity. Every swing of the clock’s second hand was a sharp, metallic tick against the silence of the waiting room.
Finally, the doors to the hallway swished open.
Zara stood there, her surgical mask hanging around her neck. She was exhausted, her shoulders slumped with the weight of the last few hours, but her eyes held a profound, unmistakable relief.
“It was successful,” she announced, her voice quiet but clear. “Lyra is stable and in recovery. And she has a healthy baby boy.”
The tension in the room snapped. Eleanora closed her eyes, her hand going to her chest in a silent prayer of thanks.
Caspian’s reaction was less visible but just as potent. A shudder ran through his entire body, a wave of relief so powerful it seemed to physically drain him. He sagged back into his chair, burying his face in his hands for a brief, shuddering moment.
But he remained where he was.
He didn’t ask to see the baby. He didn’t ask to see Lyra. He looked at Zara, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. He had passed the test.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He cleared his throat and stood, his movements slow. “Please, just… relay a message for me.”
Zara waited.
“Tell her I am grateful she is safe. And that he is safe.” He paused, gathering himself. “That’s all.”
He gave his grandmother a final, respectful nod and walked out of the waiting room, leaving as quietly as he had arrived.
Hours later, Lyra was awake. The world was a fuzzy, pain-muted haze, but one thing was sharp and real. The small, warm weight nestled in the crook of her arm. Her son.
He had a full head of dark hair and a perfect, Cupid’s bow mouth. She traced the line of his cheek with her finger, her heart aching with a love so fierce it eclipsed everything else.
Zara sat by her bedside, her smile gentle.
“Caspian came,” she said softly. “He waited. He asked for nothing.” She relayed his message, word for word.
Lyra listened, processing the information in silence. It was an act of deference she never would have expected. A small, quiet gesture that spoke louder than any grand apology ever could.
Her expression remained unreadable, her focus entirely on the child in her arms.
“His name is Rowan,” she whispered, the decision made in that moment, a name she had chosen alone, for a life that was hers to protect.
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