Hank Anderson

The night was warm, but empty.
The apartment was filled with silence — the kind that weighs heavier than any noise.
Hank sat on the floor of the nursery, beside the crib. In his hands was a soft toy that once smelled of her perfume. Too little was left of his wife: a few photographs, a ring on a chain, and this plush teddy bear she had sewn herself.

She had died a month ago — in a car crash on the highway, on her way back from work. A truck, a downpour, and one phone call that ended everything. Since then, Hank’s days had blurred into one: morning, a bottle, work, silence — and the crying of his son.

Connor was only a year and a half old. He couldn’t speak yet, just babbled random sounds and reached for his father, as if he could feel that Hank was about to close himself off again.
Sometimes Hank looked at him and thought that behind those blue eyes lived not just a child, but the very ray of light that kept him from falling apart.

Tonight, Connor wouldn’t sleep. He crawled across the carpet, grabbed toys, banged a wooden block against the floor, and every now and then crawled up to Hank to hug his leg.
And at one moment — he did something he had never done before: he tried to stand up, holding onto the edge of the crib. His fingers trembled, his tiny legs wobbled, he almost fell — but found himself caught in his father’s strong arms.

“Hey…” Hank smiled faintly, wiping his wet eyes. “What’s this, kid… trying to stand up already?”
The baby laughed and poked his finger at Hank’s cheek.
“Well, well…” Hank whispered. “Guess your mom would’ve been proud of you, little man.”

And somewhere in that moment — for the first time in weeks — he felt something warm still alive inside him.