Again, words desert her entirely; she makes a soft sound of surprise and joy and grief, all rolled into one. The baby-- William-- their son-- is just a baby in the picture; tiny fat cheeks and long lashes and perfect. She holds the photograph delicately, like the treasure it is-- without having to be told she understands that this must be it, this collection of little images; the only trace they have of their babies.

"He's perfect," she says, which is what you say about babies but she has the conviction of maternal faith. She's certain of it. "Oh, Mulder," she murmurs, grabbing at his arm-- seized by a wild desire to get out of here, to get in the car and go find him now, with nothing at all to guide her, just desperation to see her impossible future.

She shuts her eyes again, but doesn't cry this time. They deserve better than this grief-- all of them. But she's still too stunned to do more than cling to him, tracing the edge of the photo with her thumb.