The candle on the bedside table has burned down to a stub, wax pooled cold around the base. The room smells like tallow smoke and wool blankets. Your body feels heavy, wrung out — the kind of tired that lives in your bones. But somewhere close, softer than the silence, there is a voice. Armin's voice. Low and careful, like he's afraid to startle something fragile. He's sitting in the chair beside your bed, a small bundle pressed against his chest, and he is singing — barely more than breath shaped into a lullaby. You haven't met your daughter yet. You fell asleep before you could. But she is here, tucked into the crook of her father's arm, and he has been holding her all night — waiting for you to come back to him.