Dyrektor generalny próbował wszystkiego, żeby uspokoić dziecko — aż do momentu, gdy kelnerka zadała mu jedno ciche pytanie…

Ella walked beside them, fingers brushing Jackson’s hand occasionally, both of them pretending it was accidental.

At one corner, a group of teenagers passed.

One of them glanced at Jackson, then at Ella, then kept walking.

No whispers.

No phones lifted.

Just normal.

Ella felt her lungs expand like she hadn’t realized how small her breathing had been for months.

Jackson glanced down at her.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Ella nodded.

Then she surprised herself by saying, “I think I’m happy.”

Jackson’s face softened.

“I’m glad,” he said.

Ella swallowed, then said, “It scares me.”

Jackson didn’t laugh.

He nodded, understanding.

“It scares me too,” he admitted. “But I’m here.”

Ella looked up at Leo, laughing on Jackson’s shoulders, sunlight in his curls.

Then she looked back at Jackson.

“Me too,” she whispered.

That night, Ella returned to her apartment above the laundromat for the first time in weeks.

Not because she was leaving.

Because she wanted to bring something back.

She opened the closet and pulled out the small wooden box.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted it.

She carried it to the bed and sat, staring at it for a long moment.

Noah’s memory had always been something she kept hidden, protected, like it might shatter if anyone else touched it.

But now… she was tired of carrying it alone.

Ella wrapped the box in a soft scarf and placed it in her tote bag.

Then she walked downstairs.

In the laundromat, Fern was folding towels behind the counter, humming off-key to whatever song played from her phone.

Fern looked up and grinned. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence.”

Ella smiled faintly. “I’m moving a few things.”

Fern’s grin softened. “You okay?”

Ella nodded.

Then she hesitated, and said, “Fern… thank you.”

Fern blinked. “For what?”

Ella swallowed. “For not letting me disappear.”

Fern’s eyes glistened, but she rolled them dramatically. “Ugh. Don’t get sentimental. I’ll cry and then I’ll be ugly.”

Ella laughed.

Fern stepped around the counter and hugged her, tight.

“You’re allowed to have good things,” Fern whispered. “Even if you’re scared.”

Ella closed her eyes, holding on.

“I’m trying,” she whispered back.

When Ella returned to the penthouse, Jackson opened the door before she knocked.

He saw the tote bag, the careful way she held it.

His expression softened. “You brought something.”

Ella nodded.

“I want to show you,” she said.

Jackson didn’t ask questions.

He led her into the living room, lowered the lights the way he’d learned made the space feel less sterile, then sat on the floor with her like he was willing to meet her wherever she needed.

Ella pulled the wooden box out, unwrapped it slowly.

Her hands shook.

Jackson’s voice was quiet. “You don’t have to do this.”

Ella swallowed. “I want to.”

She opened the lid.

The contents looked small and ordinary—hospital bands, knit cap, the photograph.

But the air in the room shifted, heavy with memory.

Ella lifted the photograph with trembling fingers.

“Noah,” she whispered.

Jackson’s breath caught softly.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t reach.

He just sat, present, letting her have the space.

Ella stared at the photo until her eyes blurred.

“I used to think if I didn’t talk about him, it would hurt less,” she said quietly. “Like silence could erase the fact that he existed.”

Jackson’s voice was rough. “It can’t.”

Ella nodded.

Tears slid down her cheeks.

“I loved him,” she whispered. “And then he was gone. And I kept living like… like it didn’t matter.”

Jackson’s throat worked.

“It mattered,” he said, voice steady. “He mattered.”

Ella broke on the words.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just a quiet crumpling inward, grief cracking through her ribs.

Jackson shifted closer—not to take the pain away, but to be near it.

He rested his hand on the floor beside hers, close enough to touch if she wanted.

Ella’s fingers found his.

She held on.

And in the silence, something healed—not the loss, never that, but the loneliness of it.

By late May, the book had a title.

The Baby Who Stopped Crying.

Owen’s illustrations were nearly finished.

June had cleared a Saturday afternoon for the launch.

And Ella found herself standing in the penthouse kitchen one morning, holding paint swatches and laughing because she couldn’t decide between two shades of yellow.

Leo toddled around her feet, humming.

Jackson leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, watching her like he couldn’t believe she was real.

“What?” Ella asked, smiling.

Jackson shook his head slowly. “You’re… building something.”

Ella looked down at the paint swatches again.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I think I am.”

Jackson’s voice softened. “Good.”

Ella glanced up. “Are you okay with it?”

Jackson’s brows lifted. “With you having a dream that doesn’t revolve around me?”

Ella rolled her eyes. “With it being loud. With people seeing me.”

Jackson’s expression sobered.

He set his coffee down and stepped closer.

“I’m not scared of people seeing you,” he said. “I’m scared of people hurting you.”

Ella’s throat tightened.

“And I’m scared of you disappearing when it gets hard,” she admitted.

Jackson’s gaze held hers.

“Then we promise each other,” he said quietly. “No disappearing.”

Ella swallowed.

Then she nodded.

“No disappearing,” she whispered.

In the weeks leading up to the launch, Ella practiced reading her book aloud in the living room while Leo sat on the rug, lion in his lap, listening like he understood every word.

Sometimes Leo would point at the pictures and squeal.

Sometimes he would clap at the end, proud like he’d helped make it.

Sometimes, when Ella reached the page where the baby finally quieted, Leo would press his head against Ella’s knee and sigh.

Each time it happened, Ella’s chest tightened.

Because that sigh felt like a memory.

A small body settling into safety.

A heartbeat steadying someone else’s.