Arora sat on the worn couch, the leather-bound diary open across her knees, as the others ransacked Jennie's small apartment. Footsteps moved like restless moths around the room—Nick rifling through drawers in the hallway, Miso checking behind the damp curtains, Sheril's team overturning cushions and peering into cupboards. The normal sounds of a tactical sweep hummed in the background, but the handwritten pages in Arora's hand were the only things that mattered.
February blurred into March—everyday notes from a woman who loved her work as a hospital physician and cherished the fragile new life growing inside her. Small, gentle things: a patient's smile, a bad night shift, the soft flutter in her stomach.
And then, an entry dated February 14th:
Two positive lines... I'm terrified and overjoyed all at once. Six months from now, in November, I'll be holding our baby. I'm going to tell Kelvin tonight.
Arora's fingers traced the ink. Six months pregnant. Due in November.
