In the interrogation room, Sarah waits for questions that have long been living inside her. The clock ticks. The light is too bright. Her passport lies on the metal table, still damp from the rain outside. No one tells her what they want from her. Yet she feels that everything that happened is already written across her face in a calm that is not acted but learned. While she waits, the images return: the flight to America, the pale sky over Port Townsend, quiet and endless. March 2020. The world is holding its breath. Streets are empty, mouths are hidden, and beneath her heart she carries a life that will change everything. It was a time of silence. And yet, something inside her began to stir, soft, warm, inexplicable. Encounters that felt like coincidences. A glance, a word, a touch that lingered longer than she wished. None of it was planned, and yet it all seemed inevitable. Now, in the glare of the interrogation room, she knows that the questions they will ask cannot be the right ones. Because what happened cannot be recorded. It was not a crime. It was a transformation, slow, physical, quiet. Between memory and confession, Sarah tells of an awakening that began in shame and ended in freedom. Of a town that stood still while something inside her began to move. Of intimacy that became understanding. Perhaps this is not an interrogation after all. Perhaps this is the moment she finally begins to answer herself.

Chapter 3: A Hesitant Decision

The cold morning air enveloped me as I gently placed my hand on my belly. An instinctive gesture, as if this touch could somehow have eased the strangeness of this place. Before me, the small town stretched out—silent and empty, so unlike the restless bustle of Manila. No roaring jeepneys, no crowds of people, no sounds that brought the streets to life. Just silence and the biting cold creeping into my coat and gnawing at my skin.

Jason said it was normal for that time of year, but to me, it felt surreal. Ten degrees. In Manila, I never felt this cold, not even at night. My thin, unprepared clothes offered little protection against the chill that seeped into my very bones, even inside the hous. It felt as though this cold didn’t just settle on my skin but burrowed deeper, somewhere I couldn’t shake it off.

We had arrived the day before, on one of the last flights leaving the Philippines. And now... silence. Everything felt locked up, like a cage whose door had just closed behind us. Jason seemed calm, optimistic, speaking of plans, of a new life, of a future for us. I nodded mechanically, but somewhere inside, I still felt as though I was trying to grasp this new ground beneath my feet, while everything around me remained so unfamiliar.

My legs felt heavy as I sensed the cool earth beneath my shoes. Perhaps it was the pregnancy. Or perhaps it was the exhaustion that had clung to me since our arrival. Jason was already moving within this new world, while I still stood there, feeling the cold, bearing the weight of the unborn life within me, and somewhere in the distance, Manila—fading more into memory with each passing day.

I pulled my jacket tighter around me. Jason came outside and handed me another blanket, which felt like overkill. I said, “Over...” short for “overreaction,” trying to let him know I thought he was overdoing it. But deep down, I knew I needed the blanket to shield me from a cold I had never experienced before. I told him I needed to see a gynecologist as soon as possible, just to make sure everything was fine with the baby inside me. It wasn’t that I felt anything was wrong, but Jason insisted this should be one of the first things we handled there. Along with finding an apartment, of course. Both were very important.

Jason tried to reassure me—at least, he made an effort. He told me he was waiting for a letter from the health insurance company so I could visit the doctor. He had arranged it back in Manila, and the letter should arrive that day.

I asked if he had already found a doctor. He could do that while we waited for the letter. He said, “Yes, I’ve already put together a list, and Daryl”—Jason’s acquaintance who was letting us stay there—“has an ex-wife named Agnes. I told you about her, right? She was a medical assistant or worked at the hospital, I’m not sure. But she might be able to help.”

When Jason mentioned Agnes, I briefly got the feeling he knew more about her than he was letting on. But I brushed the thought aside. I didn’t want to dwell on it—it was probably just a baseless feeling. Still, it bothered me a little. I thought it was more about how jealous I got whenever Jason even mentioned another woman.

At the same time, I missed Jason’s physical closeness. It wasn’t that he wasn’t taking care of me—he did everything he could—but I missed feeling desired by him. He said he was under a lot of stress, juggling the task of building a life for us, the financial worries, and his eight-hour, five-day workweeks. Right then, he said, there was no time for anything else.

I understood that, and I saw it too. But my body still yearned to be desired, to be touched in a way that felt special. I missed it so much. Maybe that was why I overreacted more when Jason so much as mentioned other women. Not outwardly, but inside, it stirred something in me.

I felt something inside me close. The cold, the silence, Jason’s matter-of-fact voice—all of it began to blur together. I turned toward him, searching his face, as if I needed to reassure myself that he was still there, truly there. Before I could reconsider, I stepped closer and kissed him. Not a demanding kiss, not a passionate one. Rather a quiet, searching kiss—one that said more than it showed. A kiss between spouses.

Then I turned away and went back into the house.

Inside, it was warmer, but my thoughts began to drift the moment I closed the door behind me. They moved restlessly, without order, slipping from one thing to the next. This house. This silence. This new beginning that did not yet feel like mine. Lockdown. Finding a gynecologist. Finances. An apartment. Too many things pressing in at once.

I needed distraction. I heard Jason’s words echoing in my mind, telling me to focus, to stay with what was right in front of me. I tried to follow that advice, to let my attention sink into my body instead of spiraling outward.

Almost without thinking, I placed my hand on my belly again. My hand pressed down—softly, but firmly. The weight had been there for months, something I’d grown used to, barely noticing. But now it felt closer, as if my body had finally demanded attention.

I took the first step toward the stairs.

And there it was again. With my first steps, something changed inside me. Not suddenly, not abruptly. Just a familiar, intimate tugging sensation that came to the fore with the movement. With each step, I became more aware of what had already been there. A dull, warm awareness that slowly spread and became clearer. I paused, one hand on the railing, the other still on my belly. Not because it was too much—but because it was more. The further along the pregnancy progressed, the more my belly pressed against my pelvis.

Each step seemed to concentrate the feeling, pulling it inward. Not uncomfortable. Just more intense. As if my body had decided to no longer remain still. I felt a pleasant warmth spreading through my belly.

I breathed more shallowly and listened, really listened to that subtle pulsing that I had once ignored. Now it could no longer be overlooked. It belonged to me, as natural as the growing weight I was carrying and that would only increase it more and more.

I walked slowly, step by step, completely in tune with myself, accompanied by this strange, familiar feeling as I climbed the stairs. And suddenly, in addition to the pleasant warmth, I felt a faint dampness in my crotch.