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Beside my hand, Julian’s tiny fingers—fingers that had remained limp for months—had twitched. He hadn't just moved; he had shifted his weight toward the sound of my voice. / Chapter 1 / 10

Chapter 1 - THE FAINT RESPONSEBeside my hand, Julian’s tiny fingers—fingers that had remained limp for months—had twitched. He hadn't just moved; he had shifted his weight toward the sound of my voice. I leaned in, my heart hammering against my ribs, and whispered, "Julian?"

He didn't open his eyes, but his breathing rhythm changed. He was listening. I didn't sleep that night. I sat on the floor of the nursery, reading stories, describing the shadows, and singing songs. I was exhausted, but for the first time, I wasn't grieving. I was parenting.

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The heavy mahogany door of the east gallery closed softly behind me, but the silence inside did not comfort me. It pressed down like lead.

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The cool marble of the private east gallery felt chilling beneath my fingertips. The pale moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated The Blue Woman, the haunting masterpiece my mother had painted just weeks before her tragic death.

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