But there are forty-two worth keeping.
Same size. Same pale shine. Smooth enough that they look like they belong together.
I’m going to give them to her for Christmas. And when we get back to Australia, I’ll have them turned into something real. Maybe a necklace. Something she can wear that still carries a piece of this place.
I stand there another second, looking at the marks carved into the tree.
Maybe next year.
Then I head back inside.
I settle beside Charlotte the same way I left—slow and careful, so I don’t wake her. She shifts as I slide in beside her, and I wrap an arm around her waist. Instantly, she fits herself against me again without opening her eyes.
For a second, everything feels normal.
Then she winces.
It’s small. Quick enough most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But I feel it immediately.
Her hand moves to her stomach, pressing there lightly like she’s trying to soothe something without fully waking up.
I go still.
Something’s wrong.
Her breathing sounds off now. Slightly uneven. Too quick, like she’s controlling it instead of letting it happen naturally.
I wait a second, expecting it to pass.
It doesn’t.
She doesn’t relax again. Doesn’t drift back under.
“What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
“Nothing. Go to sleep.”
Her voice comes out flat and controlled in a way I know too well. The tone she uses when something hurts and she doesn’t want me paying attention to it.
“Charlotte.”
“I’m fine, Dane.”
I shift just enough to see her face. She’s turned away from me, but not completely. Her eyes are open.
“Look at me.”
She stays still for a second before finally turning toward me. Slow. Like she already knows pretending this is nothing isn’t going to work.
Her eyes meet mine. Not crying yet. But close.
I know that look. I’ve only ever seen it when something’s genuinely wrong.
“Tell me.”
She holds my gaze another second.
