C10H26N4/II.

His gaze would have been foggy and grumpy, had he ever been given eyes to see. There was no peace in him, no quiet surrender to the void. Unlike the first, who had faded without resistance, the second child lingered, restless. He did not slip away gently; he pressed against the boundary of existence, dissatisfied with his lot. He did not yet know what it meant to be, but something within him recoiled at the idea of becoming nothing.

He was his mother’s second child—the one she would never meet, yet the one who left behind an unease she would never quite shake. If the first had been a whisper, lost before it could be heard, the second was a faint, persistent murmur, unwilling to be forgotten. He had no words, no breath, no body, yet still, he strained against the silence. Though he could never take form, he did not dissolve into her as the first had. He remained, lodged somewhere unseen, a presence that never settled, never quite at rest.

He did not suffer, but didn't find peace. If he could have felt, he would have been unsatisfied. His was not a peaceful passing; it was an unresolved ending, a movement cut short. He was the second chance that never took hold, the second step that faltered, the second child who almost was—gripping at the edges of existence, but never quite making it through.