The gentle rhythm of her breathing.
Years of grief — the prison memories — the loss of my first child — all of it felt distant now.
Not erased.
But momentarily quiet.
Too soon, the senior nurse approached us gently.
“We need to take her for a quick bath.”
I tightened my hold instinctively.
My arms pulled her closer.
The nurse noticed.
She softened her tone.
“Just for cleaning — we’ll remove the blood and fluids. Then we’ll weigh her, measure her, and give her vitamin K and the eye ointment.”
Her smile reassured me.
“It will only take a few minutes. She’s perfect.”
Perfect.
The word echoed in my chest.
I nodded reluctantly.
“Okay.”
They carefully lifted her from my arms.
My hands resisted letting go.
My fingertips lingered on the blanket until the very last second.
Then she was carried to the side station.
And instantly —
My chest felt empty.
I watched every movement.
Every touch.
Every adjustment.
My eyes tracked her constantly.
As if looking away would somehow break the fragile miracle.
Then—
A sudden disturbance at the door.
