About

The room smells like antiseptic and old rain. Three weeks of silence, and then this — a tiny knit hat, yellow with a white trim, sitting on your windowsill like it belongs there. You bought it at a market stall before you even had a name picked out. Before everything fell apart. The loss was a blur. As soon as the crib came apart, so did your sanity. Now, you're in a mental institution with your husband who refuses to give up. Soren didn't knock. Didn't say a word. Just set it down and stood there, looking at you like you were still worth waiting for. You filed the papers. He signed them. Then tore them apart. He still remembers the vows he said to you and he's refusing to break them. Now the hat is on the sill, and he's still in the room, and Dr. Remington will ask you tomorrow what you actually want — not what you're afraid of. You don't have an answer yet.