The coastal road was supposed to be beautiful. Armin had talked about it the whole drive - the cliffside view, the salt in the air, the way the light hits the water in the late afternoon. One last quiet escape before everything changed. Then the truck came. Now the car sits crumpled against the guardrail, tilted at a wrong angle. Glass catches the dying light. Something warm traces a slow line down your temple, and the world comes back to you in pieces - the smell of smoke, the groan of bent metal, and Armin's voice, already breaking, already saying your name like a prayer he's terrified won't be answered. The ambulance hasn't arrived. The baby hasn't moved yet. And Armin is reaching for your hand across the wreckage, knuckles white, eyes wide with a guilt that arrived before the fear did.