They collapse inward.

  The petals lose their firmness first. The edges soften, curl, and start to wrinkle.

  Then the whole flower head tips downward, like bowing under its own weight. The trumpet shrivels, the pale lemon fades to a dull papery cream.

  Eventually the petals dry out, thin as tissue, and the stem softens at the neck. It’s not a dramatic death, just a slow folding in on itself until the bloom looks spent and hollow.

  I stare at the wilting daffodils on the windowsill. Fog clings to the outside. It’s not the glass that I’m looking at when my reflection meets my gaze.

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  “Let me know if you need anything, Selene.”

  The shuffling of blue scrubs fades as the door clicks shut behind her.

  I sink into the mattress as I turn back to the window and pull the covers up in one smooth, practiced tug. The fabric whispers against my skin as it rises to my shoulders.

  Silence settles over the room, heavy enough to press against my ribs.

  I feel it press in from every corner.

  Too quiet.

  Too still.

  The kind of silence they only give mothers who leave this place empty-armed.

  That sweet, earthy scent lingers in the air, the natural aroma of a woman who’s just given birth. I breathe it in until my chest threatens to split.

  I ignore the sting building behind my eyes until my vision finally blurs.

  It’s all I have left of my baby.

  Updates every 1-2 weeks. Thank you for reading.