"She's perfect," I whispered, tracing her miniature fingers.Ethan stood by the door, watching with quiet joy. "She looks like you."Hope became my anchor. My reason. Ethan brought photos of Italy, of quiet villages. "When you're stronger," he said, "we can go anywhere. Start over.""We?" I asked, hopeful.He smiled. "If you'll let me."Weeks passed. My body healed. Hope grew stronger, discharged into my arms. The amnesia held no flashes, no returns.Ethan arranged everything discreetly. New identities. Passports. A quiet discharge under the cover of night."You're free now," he told me as we boarded a private flight to Europe. "No past to haunt you."I looked back at the city lights fading below, Hope asleep in my arms."Thank you, Ethan," I said, leaning my head on his shoulder. "For saving us."He kissed my forehead softly. "I'd do it a thousand times."Adrian visited the grave often a simple marker in a quiet cemetery, paid for anonymously. "Cecilia Lancaster-Blackwood and Daughte
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