Kida lies awake sometimes and stares at the tiny bracelet on the table beside her bed. The gold glitters in the cold, blue light of her crystal. She studies it, remembers the hand that touched it, remembers the warmth of that hand pulled away by the cold blue light that filled her too before returning this tiny bracelet.
Milo's arms tighten around her.
She thinks ruefully that he always knows when she's awake.
"We'll give it to our daughter," he says softly. He strokes her hair.
She admits, "I miss her."
"She's still alive."
Kida turns to face him, to brush away the stubborn hairs that fall across eyes that barely see her without his glasses.
"In here." He touches her necklace. "Here." He touches the skin that covers her beating heart. "And here." His hand slides down to rest gently on her swollen belly.
She glances toward the tiny bracelet as Milo holds her tighter. Memory blends with hope.
"Yes," Kida says. "We'll give it to our daughter."