The drive back was quiet.
Not the awkward kind.
The kind where words felt unnecessary.
Ha-rin sat with her hands folded in her lap, gaze fixed on the window. The city passed by in familiar shapes—buildings, traffic lights, people walking like nothing had changed.
But something had.
"…It was louder than I thought," she said suddenly.
"Yes."
"…The heartbeat."
"Yes."
She nodded once.
"…I keep hearing it."
"That will fade," I replied. "The memory will not."
She didn't respond right away.
When we stopped at a red light, she shifted slightly in her seat, adjusting the jacket without realizing it. Her hand lingered near her stomach this time.
She didn't pull it away.
I noticed.
I still didn't comment.
When we got home, she slipped off her shoes and stood still for a moment, like she needed to recalibrate.
"…I'm not hungry," she said.
"That is fine."
"…But I feel like I should eat."
"That is also fine."
She glanced at me.
"…You're not very helpful."
"I am consistent."
She huffed quietly and walked toward the sofa, sitting down carefully.
The house felt different.
Not tense.
Occupied.
She leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"…It looked like a person," she said.
"Yes."
"…Not just a blur."
"Yes."
She swallowed.
"…I thought I'd panic."
"But you did not."
"…I wanted to," she admitted. "…But I didn't."
"That matters."
She turned her head slightly toward me.
"…You keep saying that."
"Because it is true."
She was quiet for a long time after that.
Then:
"…What if I mess this up."
"You will," I replied.
She sat up sharply.
"…That's not reassuring!"
"…Everyone does," I continued. "Mess up. Adjust. Learn."
She stared at me.
"…You're saying failure is guaranteed."
"Yes."
"…Then why are you so calm."
"Because improvement is also guaranteed," I said.
Her expression softened.
Just a little.
"…You really think like that."
"Yes."
She leaned back again.
"…That's unfair."
"In what way."
"…It makes it harder to argue with you."
"That is unintentional."
She laughed quietly.
"…Liar."
The front door opened then.
"…We're back," my mother announced.
Ha-rin stiffened immediately.
"…We're in the living room," I replied.
My parents appeared a moment later.
My father stopped short when he saw Ha-rin on the sofa.
"…You okay," he asked, unusually gentle.
"…Yes," she said. "…Just tired."
"…Doctor stuff," my mother said knowingly.
"Yes."
My mother's eyes flicked briefly—too briefly—to Ha-rin's midsection.
She said nothing.
That was more concerning.
"…Rest," my mother said. "I'll make soup later."
"…Thank you," Ha-rin replied.
My father nodded.
"…Healthy," he said, more statement than question.
"Yes," I replied.
He smiled.
Not big.Not dramatic.
Just relieved.
They left us alone again.
Ha-rin exhaled slowly.
"…Your parents know," she said.
"They suspect."
"…That's worse."
"No," I replied. "Suspicion is flexible."
She closed her eyes.
"…I'm tired."
"Yes."
"…But not empty."
"That is good."
She nodded once.
Her hand rested on her stomach again.
This time, it stayed there.