I leaned closer, my breath catching halfway as the warm steam from the bath curled between us, blurring the edges of what I was seeing.
On Sophia’s back, just below her shoulder blade, there was a faint, irregular marking, darker than her skin, shaped almost like a blurred handprint pressed from within.crsaid
It wasn’t just the shape that unsettled me, but the way it seemed slightly raised, like something beneath the skin was trying to remember its form.
My husband stepped back as if burned, water dripping from his hands, his face drained of color, eyes fixed on that small, impossible detail.
“She has it,” he whispered, barely audible, as though saying it louder might make it more real, more permanent, more impossible to undo.
“What do you mean she has it?” I asked, my voice tighter than I intended, already sensing that whatever answer came would change everything between us.
He shook his head quickly, almost violently, like he was trying to dislodge a thought he couldn’t accept, but it clung stubbornly behind his eyes.
“I’ve seen this before,” he said, swallowing hard, his gaze darting between me and the baby as if searching for permission to continue.
