#*replies.ir

The morning it began, Ishani panicked. She woke shivering, her sheets stiff with a thin layer of sleet, the mattress beneath her soaked where ice had melted and frozen again. The air around her bit at her skin, and every muscle ached as though she’d slept in a glacier. Doctors assured her that Taru was fine, that the baby hadn’t been harmed, but reassurance did little to ease the exhaustion of carrying a body that felt permanently frozen. To feel halfway human, she bundled herself in gloves and scarves, sipping scalding tea until her throat burned.

The farm was impossible. Where once her hands coaxed life from the soil, now frost spread wherever she lingered too long, leaving leaves brittle and roots drowned in ice. Watching Dodge or others tend her crops—fumbling through trial and error where she once moved with instinct—gutted her. The only warmth she trusted came from within: the small, steady kicks of Taru reminding her she wasn’t completely alone in this cold.

Seth, though, she had kept at a distance. Updates came through clipped messages, grainy pictures, phone calls when she was too tired to argue. Sometimes visits, if she let him. But she couldn’t build their daughter’s crib without the boards icing over, couldn’t even finish the simplest thing without it freezing in her hands. And who else could she call but her baby’s father? Dodge was probably a better answer.

Her lips, tinged permanently blue, pressed into a hard line as she stepped into Taru’s slowly growing room. She was used to her own aura by now, the way the temperature plummeted around her, but still her chest tightened when the small houseplants in the corner shriveled at her presence. Her gaze shifted past them, landing on Seth—and the still-unassembled crib waiting between them. "Don't get your....worms in anything. But make this quick."

Taru is sprawled across Ishani’s chest, milk-drunk and heavy with sleep, one tiny fist tangled in the collar of her mom's shirt like she’s afraid the world might shift if she lets go. Ishani hasn’t moved in nearly an hour. She won’t risk it. The crib Seth built stands a few feet away. Empty.

Ishani’s eyes are half-lidded with exhaustion, hair falling loose around her shoulders. There’s a cooling mug of tea on the table beside her, long forgotten. When the door opens, she stiffens — not in fear. Just instinct. She doesn’t look at him right away.

“She just fell asleep,” Ishani says quietly, voice low and rough from disuse. “If you slam anything, I’m handing her to you for the next four hours.” There’s no bite to it. Just truth.

After a moment, she lifts her eyes to Seth. Studies him. Measures the space between them the way she always does. Then, almost reluctant — “You can come closer. Just… slow.”

Ishani sits on the back steps of the farmhouse, boots unlaced, skirt dusted with dry soil. Taru rests against her shoulder, wrapped in a faded blanket that smells faintly of smoke and sun-warmed earth. Ishani’s fingers trace absent circles along her daughter’s spine. There’s dirt under her nails again. There always is.

“You see that?” she murmurs softly to Taru, nodding toward the orchard. “Those trees were barely taller than me when we planted them. Took patience. Took stubbornness.” A faint smirk tugs at her mouth. “You come from a long line of both.”

The barn door creaks somewhere behind her — wind, maybe. Or maybe not. She doesn’t turn immediately this time. She just sighs, the sound tired but steady.

“If you’re here to tell me I’m overdoing it,” she calls out calmly, adjusting Taru higher on her shoulder, “I already know. So you can save the lecture.” Now she glances back, eyebrow raised, daring and fond all at once.

“Unless you brought food. Then I might reconsider letting you talk.”

On Ishani's calendar, a big green circle marked a date nearly nine months away. There was no label—she didn’t need one. Just looking at it made her stomach twist, though the worst of her morning sickness had finally passed. Her energy was returning, and slipping back into the rhythm of farm life felt natural. But the thought of keeping up with the work—more importantly, of telling him—was another matter entirely.

SLAM!

“Seth.” Her voice was firm, more warning than greeting. Stop slamming my fucking door! The unspoken threat lingered in the air. She yanked the blankets higher, instinctively covering her growing stomach. Her throat tightened as she braced herself. For the entirety of her first trimester, she’d kept Seth at bay with excuses—claims of a nasty virus from the farm animals, the need to recover alone. Lies. The truth was, she had spent weeks vomiting, exhausted, and drowning in the weight of the decision she had yet to make. She'd hidden from everyone, desperate to figure things out on her own. But now, she had run out of excuses. She'd let him back in—only because of the ash storm. And because Seth insisted.

Ishani rakes her fingers through her hair, wincing as tiny shards of ice crystals break loose and scatter across the floorboards. Each one pings softly as it lands, mocking her with its fragility. It feels like the universe itself is laughing at her misfortune. The scream burning in her throat claws for release, but before it can escape, the shrill whistle of her teapot fills the kitchen, voicing her frustration for her.

She jerks back to herself, wiping quickly at the damp streaks on her face. The rough fabric of her gloves scratches against her chilled skin, leaving it blotchy. The moment the kettle quiets, she pours steaming water into a tin mug, and without pausing, gulps half of it down. The heat burns her tongue and throat, but she clings to it anyway, the only fleeting warmth she can find.

The front door shuts. Ishani doesn’t need to look, doesn’t need to guess—her chest tightens in a familiar way, a sixth sense telling her it’s Dodge. She exhales slowly, her breath fogging faint in the air, and calls out without turning “Don’t track snow in. I’ve got enough of it in here already."