**Title: “Emma’s Last Photo”**

That morning, the sky in western Colorado was unusually blue. The sunlight stretched across the snow-capped mountains, glowing like a peaceful picture. **Daniel Morris**, 34, held a cup of coffee and stood on the porch, watching the pine trees sway in the wind. His wife – **Emma** – was seven months pregnant, and in just a few weeks, they would welcome their first child. She planned to fly to California for a three-day medical conference and then return. He begged her not to go, but Emma just smiled:

— I’ll be back before your birthday. I promise, Dan.

The plane with the number **AC3721** took off at 8:15 a.m. At 9:02 a.m., on the TV screen in Daniel’s living room, an urgent news bulletin appeared: “AC3721 lost contact while flying over the Rocky Mountains. Suspected crash.”

The coffee cup fell from Daniel’s hand and shattered on the tile floor. He stood there, stunned.

For six hours, the TV kept updating. In the suburbs of Denver, rescuers discovered a raging fire on the mountainside, scattered with charred metal and torn clothes. Daniel drove more than 200 kilometers to the scene, his heart pounding with every beat.

When he arrived, the scene before his eyes was like hell on earth. The smell of acrid smoke, burning gasoline, and the stench of human flesh mixed together. Pieces of cloth, suitcases, and chairs lay in the ashes. Dozens of firefighters were still spraying water, while the investigation team set up a cordon.

—You can’t go in there! — a police officer stopped him.

Daniel screamed:
—My wife is in there! She’s pregnant!

He was pulled out, but his eyes were glued to the rubble. Among the debris was a reflective object—the half-burned frame of a phone. He recognized the pale pink casing and the small clover-shaped sticker—as Emma’s.

The phone was sent to the forensic center, but Daniel insisted on keeping it. He took it home and tried to insert the remaining memory card into his computer. Most of the data was corrupted, except for a single file named **IMG_5489.mov**, saved at exactly 9:01 AM—one minute before the plane disappeared from radar.

His hands shook as he opened the file.

The screen showed Emma, ​​her face beaming, sitting by the plane’s window. She smiled, turning the lens toward her stomach:
—My baby girl, we’re almost to California…

A violent tremor. The camera shook violently, the sound of passengers screaming. Wind whistling in the microphone. Then a terrible “crack”—and the video cut out.

Daniel collapsed onto the table, his head in his hands. He felt like his heart was about to burst.

Three days later, the rescuers finished collecting the bodies. Of the 137 victims, only 82 were identifiable. Emma was in the “unidentified” group. Daniel refused to believe it. He was determined to find her, even if it was just a part of her body.

That night, he sneaked into the cordoned-off area. The mountain wind was cold. Under the dim moonlight, ash and twisted steel tangled together like a maze. He followed what the rescuers said “might” be rows 14-20 — Emma’s position.

As he got closer, he stopped.

In the black rubble, he saw a figure — no, a **shape** sitting. A charred body, but still clutching something to its chest. Daniel fell to his knees, tears welling up in his eyes. He realized the silver wedding ring was still on the person’s hand. It was Emma.

He rushed forward, trembling, touching her hand. But when the flashlight beam passed, he choked.

Emma… was holding **a baby**.

It couldn’t be. She was only seven months pregnant.

In her arms was a tiny, red body wrapped in a half-burned coat. There was no heartbeat, no cry — just an eerie silence.

The police and the investigation team quickly arrived. Daniel was detained, and the body was taken to the forensic room. He sat outside, staring at the white blanket.

The next morning, an old forensic doctor came out, his face pale:

— Mr. Morris… I don’t know how to say it, but… your wife gave birth **before she died**.

Daniel couldn’t say a word.

The doctor said: when the plane crashed, the midsection fell onto the mountainside. The sudden temperature, pressure, and impact killed some passengers instantly. But there were signs that Emma was still alive a few minutes later. In that moment, she gave birth to a baby boy — a boy weighing about 1.8 kg.

What made everyone shudder: **the child’s small handprint** was clearly imprinted on Emma’s jacket, and on her wrist, there was a bruise in the shape of… **tiny teeth marks**.

The doctor whispered:
— We can’t explain it. It could be a convulsive reaction of a newborn when it falls into a state of oxygen deprivation. But… it seems the boy is still trying to find warmth from his mother.

Daniel was silent, tears streaming down his face.

A few days later, when he went to the morgue to identify the body for the last time, the investigator handed him a small object: a half-burned smartwatch, still running on backup battery mode.

— It recorded automatically at 9:04, right after the fall, — he said. — Do you want to hear it?

Daniel took the watch, pressed the button.

Static, then gasps. Emma’s voice, weak and trembling:

“Daniel… the plane… crashed… I… I’m coming out…”
>
> (Crying

child, very small, very faint, echoed between the wind and the fire)
>
> “Baby, hang in there… I’m sorry…”
>
> (Sound of metal falling, then a fierce roar, perhaps the fire spreading)
>
> “If anyone… finds… tell Daniel that… I kept my promise. I’m back…”

The recording ended.

Daniel fell to his knees, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. “I’m back”… Those last words were like a knife stabbing deep into his heart.

After the funeral, Daniel packed up Emma’s things. In her suitcase, there was a handwritten card:

> “Happy early birthday, honey. My son and I will blow out the candles together next year.”

Under the card was an ultrasound photo — Emma had secretly named the baby: **Ethan**.

A week later, the final results of the investigation were announced. The cause of the crash was not a mechanical failure, but the **deliberate action** of the co-pilot, who had just lost his wife in a miscarriage. He disabled the steering system, locked the cockpit door, and crashed the plane into the mountains.

Daniel said nothing. He just looked up at the sky—the place that had once been his and Emma’s trust—now a wound that would never heal.

Three months later, while cleaning his wife’s office, Daniel discovered a never-before-seen photo in her camera.

The photo was taken from the plane’s window, seconds before the crash: white light, thick clouds rolling in, and in the reflection of the glass—Emma’s smiling face, her hand on her stomach.

Behind, in the corner of the photo, there was a small hand pressed against the glass.

It couldn’t be. Emma was alone.

Daniel zoomed in, and realized that the hand… was **outside** the window.

He stood still for hours. No one could explain it — maybe it was a reflection, maybe it was a coincidence. But for Daniel, it was the last message from mother and son: they held each other, and went home together.

As dawn broke, Daniel placed the photo frame on the windowsill, where the first light of the day shone. He whispered:

— I found you, Emma. And I promise… to live for both of us.

In the gentle breeze, the curtains fluttered, and the sunlight filtered through the glass — imprinting a small figure, like a child’s hand touching a father’s face, gentle and warm.

A photo. A promise. A love that existed even in the ashes.