The hospital window overlooked a rusted metal awning below. Outside, the autumn rain hammered downcold, needling, relentlesseach drop hitting like a pebble against the roof.
Emily stirred awake from the noise. She lay still for a moment, listening to her own breath. The surgery had been routinea cyst removed, and with it, an ovary. Age, perhaps? Though in this ward, women of all ages lay recovering.
A dim glow crept through the half-open door from the corridor. The air smelled of antiseptic and something faintly medicinalvalerian, maybe.
Then, beneath the metallic drumming of the rain, she heard ita muffled whimper. She held her breath. Silence. Then againsoft, broken.
Emily sat up. Across the room, a girl no older than sixteen was curled into herself. She already knew her storycomplications from a backstreet abortion. A knitting needle, they said. An old trick.
She crossed the room and perched on the empty bed opposite. The girl was buried under the covers, nothing visible but sharp knees and tangled blonde hair strewn across the pillow. Emily tugged the spare blanket from the next bed and draped it over her.
The girl peeked out, wiping her nose childishly with the back of her hand. She’d been stitched up that morningfive hours on the table. The orderly had whispered it under her breath: *abscess. They took her womb.*
«Does it hurt?» Emily asked, voice steady. No need to whisperthe rain drowned everything out anyway.
The girl shook her head.
«Need anything? Water?»
A tiny nod. «Please.»
Emily poured lukewarm tea from her flask. «Here. Sit up a little.» She helped prop the girl up against the pillow.
«Thanks.» Three quick sips, then silence.
«Don’t cry. What’s done is done.»
The lecture perched on Emilys tongue*What were you thinking, you foolish girl? Youve thrown your life away! No children now, and nearly no life at all!* But not now. The girl was already drowning. The anesthesia must be wearing off, the weight of it all pressing down.
«I’m nobodys,» the girl whispered.
«Don’t be daft. What about your mum?»
«She doesnt know. Please dont tell her.»
The name clicked*Rosemary*. Her father was Steve, an old schoolmate. Emilys chest tightened.
She didnt stay long. By morning, the girls mother was there, rocking at the bedside, keening into her hands.
*»Why? Oh, my baby, why?»*
Emily buried herself under the sheets. Outside, the rain faded, spent.
Years later, the memory still haunted her. Then came the callher nephew James was getting married.
*Rosemary.*
She fought it, tried to warn them. But James refused to listen. The wedding went ahead.
And two years later, standing in their tiny flat, she brought them the file of an orphaned girl.
James and Rosemary exchanged a glancethen nodded.
