She arrived three hours later. The storm was gone, leaving behind a sky of unsettling, watery yellow.
Her name was Anah. Elara's grandmother. She was a tall woman, her hair a single, silver-grey braid that hung to her waist. She looked less like a grieving relative and more like a tribal elder arriving for a grim, necessary duty. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp and clear.
"Dr. Peters," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Anah. I... I'm so terribly sorry," he began, the well-worn script of tragedy feeling hollow in his mouth. "We did everything we could. The delivery... it was complicated. Elara..."
Anah held up a weathered, steady hand, silencing him. Her face was a mask of chiseled grief, but beneath it, he saw a flicker of that same, ancient fear he'd seen in Elara's eyes.
"The child," she said, her voice a low, gravelly hum. "Show me the child."
"Of course." He led her to the nursery. Bruce was asleep. Anah walked to the bassinet, her steps silent. She looked down, her face unreadable. For a full minute, she just looked.
Then, with a hand that was surprisingly gentle, she reached down and pulled back the blanket. She didn't have to search. Her fingers went directly to his left shoulder, pushing the small gown aside.
She saw the mark.
Dr. Peters, watching from the doorway, saw her back go rigid. A sharp, pained breath hissed through her teeth. Her eyes closed, and her lips moved, whispering a string of words in a language he didn't recognize. It sounded like a prayer, but it felt like a curse.
When her eyes opened, they were filled with a profound, bottomless sorrow. She looked up, not at him, but at the ceiling, as if addressing an unseen judge.
"So it is," she whispered, her voice rough. "The burden is passed."
She gently, almost reverently, covered the mark. She turned to Dr. Peters, her face now composed, the mask of the elder back in place.
"I'll be taking him home now."