Four months have passed since we lost our baby, yet time feels strangely distorted—as if it both stopped and kept moving without asking our permission. The moment itself wasn’t loud or dramatic. There was no cinematic collapse, no screaming, no visible breaking point. Instead, it ended in a way that felt unbearably quiet. A still hospital room. A nurse who avoided looking directly at us. A silence so heavy it seemed to press against my chest until I could hardly breathe. That was how our world changed forever—not with a crash, but with a whisper. In the days and weeks...
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