Arora sat on the worn couch, diary open on her knees, as the others ransacked Jennie's small apartment. Footsteps moved like restless moths around the room — Nick rifling through drawers, Miso checking behind the curtains, Sheril's team overturning cushions and peering into cupboards. The normal sounds of a search hummed in the background, but the pages in Arora's hand were the only things that mattered.
June blurred into July—everyday notes from a woman who loved her work and feared losing a life inside her. Small things: a patient's smile, a bad night shift, the ache in her back. Love and monotony braided together into family plans and baby names.
And then June 6th, written in a handwriting that trembled:
