Next to Meryl's hospital bed, Vash holds his newborn daughter.
Even at six months, she is perfect. Ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes, and the merest ghost of honey-gold hair.
Meryl lies still and pale in the bed, almost the color of the hospital linens, her breathing weak and shallow. The orderlies have cleared off the reddened sheets, and her vitals are stable, but he fears what will happen when she wakes.
So small. So beautiful. So cold.
Doc approaches Vash, and his voice is infinitely sorrowful but final.
"Vash, it's time to let her go now."