The pregnancy was anything but normal. She craved not pickles and ice cream, but ink and old parchment. She’d wake at 3 AM with a taste of sea salt on her tongue, dreaming of lighthouse beams and unmarked maps. The baby kicked in patterns—three short, one long, like a Morse code she almost understood. Juniper, the cat, stopped sleeping on the register and started sleeping directly on her belly, purring a deep, resonant hum that felt like a lullaby.
The town noticed, of course. Mrs. Albright from the bakery left a pie on her doorstep with a note that said, “No ring, no shame, dear. Just tell us who.” The librarian, Mr. Chen, offered books on single motherhood, which Rachel politely declined. Only Elias, the reclusive clockmaker, looked at her with knowing, ancient eyes. “The child’s father isn’t gone,” he said one afternoon, not looking up from his gears. “He’s just… between places.” rachel steele pregnant
And Ariadne? She sleeps soundly, one tiny fist curled around the compass, dreaming of a father who is never really gone—just waiting at the next threshold, for the right moment to step through. The pregnancy was anything but normal