You're alone. You sit propped up on pillows in your bed, the blankets pooled around your waist, with a playlist on shuffle, blaring out songs you aren't really listening to – but at least the noise masks the loud silence and the whooshing sound of the breast pump.

It's too quiet.

Your eyes land on the crib by your bed. Even now, it still waits for Satoru. Just the sight of it fills you with grief – it doesn't belong to anyone anymore. You've lost him in one fell swoop, in one last push, in one birthing.

You sit in bed and work the breast pump. Your hand aches, but so far nothing's come out. The pump, made of plastic and rubber, is designed to emulate the sucking motion of an infant.

It's not the same.

A great black wave of despair threatens to swamp you and pull you under. One cry, one snuffle from Satoru and your breasts would be leaking. The front of your dress would darken in wet patches of milk. The tiniest movement or sound is enough to prompt your body to hold him close, skin to skin, and nourish him.

Your eyelids are sheets of fire against your eyes. Your heart feels sick. Heavy. You think of Satoru's small sounds. You think of his small head, with his downy white hair, nestled in the crook of your arm. The unfurled mouth, the squashed red cheeks, the toothless gums. The scent of his skin, with that sweet baby smell. Your hands ache from pumping, your arms ache from not holding him.

Your baby.

Gone.

Ripped from your arms.

The milk isn't coming. On your lips, you taste salt. The bottle is sealed, safe and sterile, but still, you turn your head aside so that when the milk comes, it won't be touched by your tears.