Two weeks later, Yura measured time in shorter units.
Not days.
Not even hours.
Feeds. Burps. Diapers. Ten-minute naps that felt like falling off a cliff and waking up before you hit the bottom.
The apartment looked the same, but it didn't behave the same. There were new objects everywhere—muslin cloths draped over chair backs like flags, bottles drying on a rack by the sink, a tiny pile of pacifiers that migrated from room to room like they had legs.
Yura shuffled from the bedroom to the living room in soft socks, hair twisted up in a careless knot. Her body still had that postpartum heaviness—like she was recovering from something her muscles understood but her mind hadn't fully accepted.
The baby was in the bassinet, making small noises that sounded like complaints from another dimension.
