The morning unfolded in the prison hospital room with an unusual stillness. No clanging doors echoed through the corridors, no raised voices broke the silence. The calm was almost palpable, stirring a quiet unease in the air.
“Who’s scheduled today?” the nurse on duty asked, arranging the worn identification cards of the inmates across the table.
The midwife, her eyes heavy with years of experience, barely glanced up. She had witnessed much in her time at the colony: mothers in despair, deliveries under restraint, and unspoken sorrows that lingered in the shadows. Yet, something about this day felt subtly off, a faint tremor of apprehension she couldn’t place.
“Prisoner #1462,” the nurse replied. “Her contractions could start soon. Transferred a month ago from the Eastern Bloc. No family, no records, no medical history. She’s barely spoken since arriving.”
“Silent?” the midwife asked, her brow furrowing slightly. “Completely?”
“Mostly nods. Avoids eye contact. Like she’s sealed herself away.”
The heavy door groaned as it opened. Inside the stark ward, more cell than room, a pregnant woman rested on a narrow metal cot. Her hands cradled her swollen belly, her gaze fixed on the floor. Her pale face and tangled hair framed an eerie calm—not fear, not pain, but a deep, resigned stillness.
The midwife stepped forward.
“Hello,” she said softly. “I’ll stay with you through the birth. Let me check on you.”
The woman gave a faint nod.
The midwife bent down to begin the examination and suddenly let out a piercing scream.
“Summon a priest—now!”
Where the steady rhythm of a baby’s heartbeat should have been, there was only a chilling void. She adjusted her position, pressed harder, held her breath—but still, nothing.
Her face drained of color.
“There’s no heartbeat,” she whispered.
The guards exchanged uneasy looks, the room growing thick with tension.
Contractions surged suddenly, leaving no time for hesitation. The midwife tightened her jaw and called out again:
“Get a priest now! If the child is lost, it deserves a prayer, not silence.”
The woman on the cot remained silent, her fingers gripping the sheet tightly.
Then, faintly, a sound emerged. At first, it was a mere whisper, then it grew clearer. A heartbeat—faint, erratic, but undeniably there.
“Alive,” the midwife exhaled. “The baby’s alive…”
The struggle intensified. Contractions strengthened, the woman cried out, guards steadied her arms and shoulders, and the midwife worked tirelessly to protect both mother and child. Time seemed to freeze within the confines of the cell.
After grueling hours, a faint cry broke through. Soft at first, then louder, more insistent. A boy—small, fragile, his skin tinged blue, but breathing.
They rushed him to oxygen, gently warming his tiny body until his breaths deepened. Soon, a fierce, unmistakable wail filled the room.
The midwife closed her eyes, brushing sweat from her brow.
“Thank you, Lord…”
For the first time, the prisoner lifted her gaze and smiled.
