Ian paced anxiously along the stark white hallway of the hospital, his fingers dragging through his hair, his nerves unraveling with each step. The sharp scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with the soft, distant beeping of machines behind closed doors. It had been three long, agonizing hours since Hope was wheeled into the operating room, and every passing minute stretched unbearably, like time itself was mocking him.

He cast yet another glance toward the nurse at the counter, his eyes silently pleading for news. But every time he approached, his voice tight with desperation, she gave him the same clipped response: “Please be patient.” The words echoed inside his skull, offering no comfort—only feeding the panic clawing at his chest.

Frustration building, he sank into the nearest chair, his foot tapping a restless rhythm against the polished floor. He felt trapped in limbo, helpless and hollow. He had already called both sets of parents, though their anxious voices now blurred into background noise. None of it mattered. Only Hope did.

“Ian!”

His head snapped up at the sound of her voice.

Faith.

She hurried toward him, her expression drawn tight with concern. Relief flooded his chest, brief and fleeting.

“Any news about Hope?” she asked, her breath unsteady, eyes scanning his face for answers.

Ian shook his head slowly. “Not yet. The doctor hasn’t come out,” he said, voice low and strained.

Faith gently placed a hand on his arm—a small gesture, but grounding. “Thank you for calling me.”

He exhaled, nodding. “You didn’t have to rush over…”

“Of course I did,” she said, her tone firm yet kind. “I needed to be here. For her. For you.”

A brief silence fell between them, the hum of hospital life filling the space. Then she offered a small, hopeful smile.

“Hope’s strong. She’ll get through this,” she said softly. “And soon, you’ll be holding both her and your little one.”

Ian swallowed hard, holding onto her words like a lifeline. Despite the fear, despite the crushing uncertainty, a small spark of comfort lit within him. Hope was strong. She had to be.

And until he knew for sure, he’d keep believing that.

----------------

Another hour crawled by, each minute chipping away at Ian’s composure. The silence around him grew louder, heavier—taunting. Why was it taking this long? Was something wrong? The knot in his stomach twisted tighter with every unanswered question.

Faith’s voice broke through the haze.
“Hey, I’m going to grab some coffee. Want one?” she asked, her tone light, trying to ease the tension.

Ian barely looked up.
“No, I’m fine,” he said quickly, though the words tasted like a lie. There was nothing fine about this moment.

As Faith disappeared down the hallway, Ian stood frozen for a beat, then resumed pacing the waiting room. His gaze flicked to the sterile white walls, then back to the closed doors that separated him from his wife.
Please, Hope. Be okay. Stay with me. Stay with us.

He whispered the plea inwardly, clinging to it like a prayer.

When Faith returned, the smell of coffee drifted between them, grounding yet distant. She offered him a cup with a small, sympathetic smile.
“Here,” she said softly. “You look like you could use something warm.”

Ian took it, his fingers curling around the heat, but he didn’t drink. The comfort was fleeting—fragile in the face of his unraveling thoughts. Looking at Faith was almost surreal. She was a mirror of Hope, right down to the way her brow creased when she worried. It made the absence of his wife feel even sharper.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low, barely more than breath.

Faith nodded, settling into the chair beside him.
“You’re welcome,” she murmured, her eyes drifting toward the operating room doors. The quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable—it was necessary. Shared, and heavy, and filled with hope neither dared speak aloud.

--------------------

Just then, the doors to the operating room creaked open, and Ian’s head snapped up, his heart vaulting into his throat. His legs moved before his mind could catch up, carrying him toward the doctor who stepped into the hallway. The man’s expression was composed—too composed.

Ian abandoned the untouched coffee on the counter, his hands trembling as he approached, every fiber of his being bracing for impact.

“Doctor,” he croaked. “My wife… my baby… please, tell me—how are they?”

The doctor offered a faint, practiced smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Your baby is healthy and strong. Congratulations, Mr. Harper… you have a son.”

For a second, the world froze.

A son. He had a son.

Ian felt the breath knock out of him like a wave, his chest caving in with the weight of relief. His lips parted in disbelief. Hope had always wanted to name him August. She’d said it with so much love in her voice, already cradling dreams of the life they’d build together. Now it was real.

But the doctor hadn’t mentioned her.

Ian’s smile faded like a dying flame.
“And Hope?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Where is she?”

The doctor’s eyes flickered, just briefly—and that was all it took for Ian’s stomach to drop.

“Doctor?” he pressed again, louder this time, his voice sharp with panic. “Where’s my wife?”

A long, agonizing pause.

“She—” the doctor began, and Ian felt his chest seize.

“She suffered severe internal bleeding,” he continued carefully. “We tried everything we could, but the blood loss was too—”

“No,” Ian whispered, stumbling back as if struck. “No, don’t say that. She—she was fine. She kissed me before they took her in. She said she’d see me soon. You were supposed to bring her back.”

The words fell out of him, raw and broken.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Harper.”

“No!” Ian cried out, a choked sob clawing its way from his throat. “Why are you here? Why are you telling me this? You should be in there—saving her!”

His voice echoed down the hallway, cracking at the edges. Nurses stopped mid-step, their eyes drawn to the unraveling man who looked like he’d just lost his world. Faith reached out, but Ian shook her off, staggering back like a man drowning.

“You said everything,” he growled at the doctor, voice shaking. “But she’s not—she’s not here. She’s gone. That’s not everything.”

The doctor’s face tightened with restrained grief, but he held firm. “We did everything in our power. I’m truly sorry.”

Ian's knees gave out. He collapsed to the cold floor, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. The hallway spun wildly. He pressed his hands to his chest like he could keep his heart from shattering into pieces. Faith knelt beside him, her arms wrapping around his trembling frame as he sobbed into her shoulder, clinging to her like a man desperately trying not to fall apart.

“Please…” he whimpered. “Please go back. Try again. Don’t leave her in there alone…”

The doctor swallowed hard, guilt etched in every line of her face. “She wasn’t alone,” she said softly. “We were with her until the very last heartbeat.”

Ian’s head dropped, a guttural cry tearing from his throat. He barely heard the doctor retreat. All he could feel was the gaping, unbearable absence where Hope should have been.

----------------------

Ian remained on the cold, sterile floor of the hospital hallway, his body shaking beneath the crushing weight of reality. The scent of antiseptic hung in the air, sharp and clean, a cruel contrast to the emotional ruin unraveling inside him. It all felt wrong—too bright, too quiet, too alive—when his world had just stopped turning.

Faith knelt beside him, her chest tightening at the sight of him—her brother-in-law, her family—folded into himself like a man trying to disappear. His sobs had quieted into shudders, but the anguish on his face screamed louder than any cry ever could.

"Ian..." she murmured, her voice barely audible. She placed a hand gently on his trembling shoulder, the contact hesitant but grounding. "Please… breathe. I know it hurts. I know it feels like it’ll never stop hurting."

Ian slowly turned his tear-streaked face toward her, his eyes—those familiar blue eyes Hope used to adore—now red and hollow. Something inside him looked broken, splintered beyond repair.

"She was just here," he whispered, as if speaking it might rewind time. "She kissed me. She said she'd see me after. She… she promised."

Faith’s heart shattered. She wrapped her arms around him with no hesitation, holding him tightly against her chest like she could keep him from falling even further. His body folded into hers, and she felt the full force of his devastation in the way he clung to her—desperate, trembling, wrecked.

"I’m so sorry, Ian," she whispered, her voice thick with her own tears. "If I could trade places with her, I would. I swear I would."

Ian buried his face in her shoulder, his fingers digging into the back of her sweater like she was the last solid thing in a world that had completely unraveled. "Please tell me this isn’t real,” he choked out. “Please… My wife can’t be gone. She can’t be."

Faith’s voice broke. "I wish I could tell you that. I wish to God I could wake us both up from this nightmare."

They stayed like that for a long moment—two souls bound by shared grief, wrapped in each other’s silence. Around them, the world kept moving. Nurses passed quietly, the fluorescent lights hummed, and somewhere in the distance, a newborn baby cried out.

It hit Ian like a blade through the chest.

“August,” he whispered hoarsely. “Our son… she never even got to hold him…”

Faith’s arms tightened around him as her own tears finally fell, warm and unchecked.
“Then we’ll hold him for her,” she murmured through her sobs. “We’ll love him enough for the both of you. I promise.”

-----------------------

Just then, the soft patter of footsteps broke the crushing silence. A nurse approached with quiet reverence, her eyes kind but shadowed with sorrow. Nestled in her arms was a tiny bundle swaddled in pale blue—a flicker of light in the heart of devastation.

"Mr. Harper," she said gently, her voice low and steady, like she was afraid to disturb the air around them, "here’s your son."

Ian slowly pulled away from Faith, his body moving as if weighed down by an invisible anchor. His legs were unsteady, and his breath caught as he extended his trembling arms. The moment his son was placed against his chest, something inside him cracked—not broken, but opened. A trembling breath escaped him, and his arms instinctively tightened around the baby, holding him like something sacred. Like a lifeline.

The nurse offered her condolences, quiet and respectful, but Ian didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He was staring down at the tiny, sleeping face pressed gently against his chest, at the miracle that Hope had left behind. This... this was the last piece of her. The only piece he had left.

Faith stood beside him, her own breath caught in her throat. The baby was so small, so impossibly fragile, yet already carrying the weight of so much love and sorrow. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat and reached for something to ground them. “Have you decided on a name for him?” she asked softly, as if even her voice might shatter the moment.

Ian nodded, his lips parting as fresh tears slid silently down his cheeks. “Hope chose the name,” he murmured, the words a whisper of devotion, clinging to the last decision they had made together.

Faith gave a gentle nod, her voice catching. “What did she choose?”

“August Lance Harper,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving the baby’s face. There was something almost reverent in the way he spoke it—like the name itself was a prayer, a vow.

“It’s beautiful,” Faith whispered, reaching out to touch August’s tiny cheek with a featherlight touch. Her hand trembled, but her heart swelled at the same time, flooded by both grief and wonder.

After a moment, the nurse gently stepped forward, her expression tender. With a quiet glance of permission, she lifted August back into her arms. Ian hesitated, reluctant to let go, but eventually released him, his hands lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

And as the nurse walked away with the baby, the space between Ian and Faith filled with a silence that wasn’t empty—but sacred.

--------------------------

Another nurse approached Ian with hesitant steps, her expression a delicate blend of sympathy and urgency. “Mr. Harper,” she said softly, “you can spend a few minutes with your wife before she’s taken to the morgue.” Her voice barely carried, like it didn’t dare disturb the weight of grief that hung in the air.

Ian nodded slowly, as though the simple motion required more strength than he had left. Faith followed beside him, her footsteps quiet, solemn, as they stepped into the stark white of the operating room. The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, casting a sterile glow over the scene.

The sight stopped Ian cold.

Hope lay motionless on the table, her skin pale as porcelain, lips tinged with blue. She looked almost asleep—peaceful, even—but the unnatural stillness screamed otherwise. Ian’s legs buckled slightly beneath him as he rushed to her side and dropped into the chair beside her, clutching her hand with trembling fingers.

“Hope…” His voice cracked, already drowning in emotion. “Please open your eyes.”

He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, tears spilling freely down his cheeks. “I’m here now, baby. You need to wake up. This isn’t funny. You promised we’d raise our son together.” His voice fractured with every word. “I can’t do this without you. Please…”

Faith stood frozen behind him, tears quietly sliding down her face as she witnessed the man she’d known for years unravel completely. She wrapped her arms around herself, wanting to be strong for him, but her own grief clawed at her ribs like a caged animal.

“Ian…” she whispered, stepping closer. “She’s gone.”

“No,” he replied sharply, his voice rising. “She’s just tired. She’ll wake up soon.”

Faith’s heart clenched. “Ian, please… I lost her too. She’s my twin. I feel like half of me is gone, but we have to be strong. For August.”

He turned to her with eyes that didn’t recognize the world anymore. “I’m not leaving her,” he said hoarsely. “You can’t ask me to leave her alone in here.”

The door opened again, and two medical assistants entered quietly, their movements careful, like stepping through sacred ground. One of them, a tall man with weary eyes, spoke gently, “Sir, we need to take her now.”

Ian didn’t flinch. “You’re not taking her anywhere.”

Faith reached out and touched his arm, gently but firmly. “Ian… please. This isn’t fair, I know. But it’s time.”

He jerked his arm away, shaking his head. “Hope is okay. She’ll wake up. She always does. You’ll see.”

The assistants exchanged glances. They’d seen grief manifest like this before—sometimes stubborn, sometimes violent. One of them stepped out to signal a nurse, while the other stayed behind, careful not to escalate the fragile moment.

“Ian,” Faith tried again, stepping in front of him. “Listen to me. You’re not alone. We’ll face this together, okay? But you have to let her go now. Just for a little while.”

His breathing grew erratic, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. “I can’t. If I let go, she’ll disappear. I’ll wake up, and she’ll be gone.”

“She’s already gone,” Faith whispered, her voice breaking. “But we’re still here. August is here.”

At that moment, the nurse returned with a syringe in hand. She moved cautiously, speaking in the same hushed tones as before. “Mr. Harper, this will help calm you. We just want to make sure you’re safe.”

Ian recoiled. “No! Don’t touch me. I don’t need that. I just need her to wake up.”

His panic rose, a feverish storm behind his eyes. Faith gripped his hand tightly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Ian, please. Please let them help you. For August. For Hope.”

He stared at her, breathless and wide-eyed, the chaos in his mind beginning to fray the edges of his reality. Finally, with no fight left in his trembling limbs, he allowed the nurse to press the needle gently into his arm. The sedative took hold quickly.

His body went slack, his head falling back against the chair as the fog overtook him. Faith stayed by his side, guiding his hand down gently, whispering through her sobs, “It’s okay… You’re not alone.”

The medical assistants moved swiftly and reverently, preparing Hope’s body for transfer. Faith turned toward her sister one last time, brushing her fingers against her cheek. “I love you,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Always.”

And as Hope was taken from the room, Faith stood beside Ian—his body still, his breathing finally steady—and vowed silently to carry them both through whatever came next.

Because grief like this didn’t just pass.

It had to be lived through, one broken breath at a time.