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"We have to create. it is the only thing louder than destruction."-Andrea Gibson, Yellow Bird
The first moment he sees her, he almost can't believe she's his. She's a gift, one he never expected so late in his life, long beyond the years he'd once imagined raising a child. She's beautiful, pure innocence, pure goodness, and surely nothing that perfect could come from him and all the darkness and horror he sees. But despite the doubt, he sees himself in her, in the shape of her nose, the set of her jaw, small echoes of himself that leave him awed and humbled.
She feels light as a feather in his arms, cradled in his palms. Her tiny hand curls around his finger - five little fingers and he counts them twice - with a surprisingly strong grip, blue eyes blinking sleepily up at him, followed by a pink yawn.
They'd discussed names, narrowed them down to a list eventually, but only one suits her, and he whispers it aloud like a quiet prayer.
Jordan. Like the river, baptizing him, cleansing his soul. He's born anew in that moment, filled with such a powerful swell of love that for a few moments it drowns the visions, obscures the evil in his mind, and leaves him with nothing but peace.