Clutching the edge of her bag, Ava sat down on the step of her terrace, and stared right into the twilight of the sky.
It was almost 5.30 in the morning, and the air still smelt Christmas. It was the best she's had since Alfred's birth.
Today, he was free from the ailment that nearly cost both their lives. If Alfred had died, everything that meant anything—everything that mattered—would have been stripped away, like dust before a wind, and she would have no one to blame except herself. Not Lucas, or Dr Phyl—but herself.
God had been kind. She remembered the first time she had prayed for her son. It felt she was having a conversation with him, like she was talking with Maria Though she wasn't religious, she had been cinvinced, of the power of prayer. Not once, or twice, but as often times as she had bowed her head in prayer, and it worked. Every single time.
BlueBird had been too thoughtful.
