The Mother Of Theodore.
Night.
Bedroom, Theodore Mansion.
Critic Arley, Critic-Ishire.
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As the moon cast its soft glow through the window, illuminating their bedroom with a gentle silver light, Lydia and Theodore lay side by side in their bed.
The heaviness of their hearts seemed to weigh down the very air around them, suffocating in its intensity.
Lydia's eyes were red and swollen from tears shed throughout the day, but her mind was no longer overly consumed by thoughts of the child they had lost.
Theodore's face was drawn and etched with small lines of distress, his normally strong demeanour crumbling under the weight of their shared grief.
They lay in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, the only sound the quiet rhythm of their breathing mingling in the stillness of the night. The emptiness of their arms once filled with passion and dreams was now echoed with a painful absence that seemed to stretch on infinitely.