The morning had started like any other, though my body felt heavier than usual. Seven months into my pregnancy, even simple routines carried a different weight. The kind of tiredness that settles deep in the bones had followed me from the moment I woke.

It wasn’t a sad tiredness, not the sort that dims your spirit, but a gentle one — the result of growing a life and carrying the hope and responsibility that come with it. As I boarded the bus, I moved with deliberate slowness, holding the railing, steadying myself against the small swell of passengers already gathered inside.

I found a seat near the middle and sank into it with a relieved sigh. The bus smelled of morning air, winter jackets, and faint traces of coffee; the windows fogged lightly with each exhale from the people inside.

The world outside moved in streaks — trees bare from the season, storefronts opening for the day, people wrapped in scarves and their own thoughts. I rested a hand on my belly out of habit, feeling the quiet, rhythmic flutter that had become a familiar comfort. Life was growing there, quietly and faithfully, and I felt grateful for every kick.