The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm linen.
Jasmine had not slept much. She didn't want to.
Every time her eyes drifted closed, she felt the subtle weight beside her, the quiet rise and fall of a tiny chest, and she opened them again—just to be sure. Just to witness.
Morning light spilled across the floor, pale gold and unhurried. The nurse returned with a clipboard and a gentle knock.
"How are we doing?" she asked.
"Tired," Jasmine said honestly. "But steady."
The nurse smiled approvingly. "That's the right kind."
She checked vitals, adjusted the blankets, then glanced down at the form. "We'll need the baby's name for the records."
Jasmine's fingers stilled.
She had thought about this. Carefully. Repeatedly. Names mattered. They carried intention, inheritance, expectation.
This child would carry none of the weight that had once been placed on her.
"Evan," Jasmine said after a moment.
The nurse wrote it down. "Evan Towers."
Jasmine nodded.
Evan. Simple. Strong. Unassuming. A name that didn't announce itself, but endured.
When the nurse left, Jasmine leaned closer, brushing her lips against her son's forehead.
"Evan," she repeated softly.
His mouth moved, as if testing the sound in his sleep.
---
Discharge came quickly.
Jasmine dressed Evan in the soft cotton clothes she had bought weeks earlier—neutral colors, nothing loud. She packed the few belongings they had accumulated with methodical calm.
As she signed the final paperwork, the doctor paused. "Do you have help at home?"
"Yes," Jasmine replied.
And she did.
She had preparation. She had discipline. She had resolve.
Those counted.
---
The ride home was quiet.
Evan slept through most of it, undisturbed by motion or sound. Jasmine watched him from the corner of her eye at every red light, one hand resting protectively on the carrier.
When they stepped into the apartment, it felt different.
Smaller.
Fuller.
She set the carrier down carefully and stood there for a moment, absorbing the change. The silence was no longer empty. It was alive with possibility.
"Welcome home," she said.
---
The days that followed passed in gentle fragments.
Feeding schedules. Late-night pacing. Sunlight creeping across the living room as she rocked Evan in her arms, whispering things she hadn't known she needed to say.
"You're safe."
"I've got you."
"You don't owe anyone anything."
Fatigue came in waves, but it was honest. It didn't hollow her out. It grounded her.
Her mother visited once, quiet and respectful, eyes lingering on Evan with a tenderness that said everything words couldn't.
"He looks like you," she said.
Jasmine smiled faintly. "I know."
---
Across the country, the rhythm of Keith Acland's life continued—meetings, deadlines, expectations stacking neatly atop one another.
Yet something subtle had shifted.
He woke earlier now, without reason. He found himself staring at nothing in particular, thoughts drifting toward questions he hadn't thought to ask before.
"Is there anything else?" his assistant asked one afternoon.
Keith shook his head. "No. That's all."
But it wasn't.
He caught himself looking at families differently. At children in restaurants. At a toddler gripping his father's hand in an elevator.
An unfamiliar discomfort pressed at his chest.
He dismissed it as stress.
---
That night, Jasmine stood at the crib she had assembled herself, watching Evan sleep.
"You don't need to know where you came from yet," she whispered. "Only where you're going."
She turned off the light and lay down, exhaustion pulling her under at last.
In another city, a man slept uneasily, unaware that a name had been chosen, a life had begun, and a door had closed so quietly that he hadn't even heard it.