The day she handed him over was the coldest of that winter. He was wrapped in a soft blue blanket, the necklace tucked beneath it. She kissed his forehead once, quickly, before they led her out the side door. She chose to keep no name, or even a photo. Just like that, absence soon enveloped her existence.
After that, time became something she moved through rather than lived in. She picked up double shifts, moved apartments, and let the years stack up in neat, unfeeling layers. Ever so often, she’d dream of a tiny hand clutching the silver chain, the blue stone glinting in sunlight—a dream that had got murkier with each passing year.