Isabella's POV
The days blurred.
In the crumbling church, time was measured by Gabriel's soft cries, Clara's fevered murmurs, and Ryan's slow recovery. We rationed what little food we had, melted snow for water, and kept low fires beneath shattered stained glass.
It wasn't peace.
It was purgatory.
But it was enough—for now.
Clara's wound worsened before it got better. She fought the infection like she had fought everything in her life: with grit and spit. One night, she turned to me in the dark, sweat beading on her brow.
"You should've let me die."
"No," I said firmly, wiping her forehead. "You don't get to quit. You saved my son. You don't get to leave before seeing what comes next."
She gave a weak laugh. "That sounds terrifying."
"It will be."
Gabriel slept curled against my chest most nights. When I held him, the shaking in my hands would stop. My heart, always restless since the estate, would quiet.
But it didn't last.
