The security lights cast a stark, white glow over the stone steps.

Inside, the grand foyer was silent.

The air felt different now, lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from the hallways.

We went straight up the wide carpeted staircase to the nursery.

The room was warm, smelling of baby powder and chamomile tea.

Leo lay in his crib, his small chest rising and falling in a steady, peaceful rhythm.

His cheeks were no longer pale; they had a faint, healthy pink color.

I walked over and put my hand gently on his back, feeling the warmth of his skin.

He stirred slightly, turning his head, but did not wake.

Lorenzo stood beside me, looking down at his son.

The hard, cold expression on his face finally softened.

He reached down and touched the baby’s tiny hand.

Leo’s fingers curled instinctively around Lorenzo’s thumb.

“He is breathing well,” Lorenzo whispered.

“His lungs are clear,” I said.

“The toxins are completely out of his system now,” I added.

We stood there in the quiet room for a long time, just watching him sleep.