The funerals come to pass—of the innocents, with beautiful goodbyes; of the convicted, with cursed farewells.
The grave, they say, is equal for all: every man returns to the dust, for we are born from the earth, and to the earth we return.
Yet the life one leads leaves its trace. You, who grazed one or two souls—turned forlornness into blessedness, tranquility into ruin.
The flesh burns and shreds, ashens and disappears; death liberates the soul, and it flies unscathed—away, far from the mortal realm.
For the soul is breath, air—purifying the world through the vines and olive trees, and polluting it through meadows of black dahlias. The unclouded air strengthens heaven; the tainted smokes rise from the burns.
It has now been a full month—a month of tragedy, and of bearable miracles, a month of making truce with twisted fate. The reckoning declares: fifteen lives lost, and fifty more, wounded—fatally and otherwise.
Still, the countrypeople must move on. So long as breath remains in flesh, they rise, they endure. Scars etched into the mind's hollow will, in time, yield the blossom of the bud.
The thieves who came to kill and steal were betrayed by their own kind. Most of the exiled troops are caught. But there remains no trace of the more experienced men—the ones who patrolled the church and tried to bomb it down.
Only their dead bodies were found. The rest had fled.
The month now elapsed is truly a knit of sorrow and grace, of ruin and resurrection.
♡
In the night before dawn, Neva lies awake.
Her husband sleeps behind her, one arm draped loosely around her waist. In her hand, the phone's bright screen slices through the darkness, the timer glowing as she tracks her contractions.
A soft cry escapes her lips as pain clenches through her uterus. Her face scrunches, and she sucks in a sharp breath.
Moments later, she exhales, the ache ebbing just enough for relief.
She turns toward her husband. "Rhett?" she whispers.
No response. She tries again, lightly patting his arm. "Rhett."
"Hmm?" he groans, voice deep and drowsy, still not fully awake.
She shifts to face him completely. "Wake up. I think I'm going into labor."
His eyes open slightly, dazed. "What?"
"The baby's coming," she says softly, uncertainty threading her voice.
He blinks fully awake, concern flickering in his gaze. "Are you sure? How do you feel?"
"I've been awake for almost four hours. The pain… it's not going away," she murmurs, curling against his chest.
He pulls her closer, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?"
"I wasn't sure," she whispers, voice muffled against him. "It started off like mild cramps… but now it just keeps getting worse."
"Is it too painful? How long does it last?" he asks, brushing a strand of hair from her temple.
"It's getting more intense.
Lasts about thirty seconds… comes every seven minutes." She looks up at him, eyes glistening.
He strokes her cheek with his thumb. "Are you having one now?"
"No… not right now," she whispers. Then a tear slips down her cheek. "Rhett… I'm scared."
He brushes it away, tenderness in his gaze. "Don't be. I'm here."
She shakes her head, more tears falling.
"W-we don't even have the crib ready—" she cries softly.
"Shh…" He draws her close, resting his chin atop her head.
She clutches his shirt in tight fists.
He sighs. So much has happened this month. He had bought the crib—he just hadn't had time to assemble it. And the due date was still weeks away.
"I know. I'm sorry. I'll get it ready after the baby's born, he murmurs."
"It's not your fault," she whispers.
After a long moment, he asks, "What time is it?"
"Almost four," she replies, curling into him as he gently combs his fingers through her hair.
.
.
.
Neva, dressed in light, comfortable clothes, waddles toward Rhett, her hand resting on the swell of her belly, the other on her back. He leans over the bed, calmly checking the large labor bag for her and the baby while they wait for the cab to arrive.
She lowers herself onto the bed, pressing her hands harder against her rounded stomach, eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritted as another contraction rips through her.
"Is the pain worsening?" he asks, glancing at her with a worried frown.
Even on this chilly September night, sweat beads at her hairline, her body trembling as a sharp yelp escapes her.
He moves closer immediately, taking her hand in his, while his other hand presses firmly to her lower back, applying steady pressure.
He tries to keep his composure, even as his heart aches quietly seeing her in such pain.
She exhales sharply as the contraction, that seemed to last for ages subsides for now.
"Do you need to drink water?" He asks, rubbing her back soothingly.
She nods, meeting his gentle yet anxious gaze—then her eyes widen as something warm flows down her legs.
"I… I think my water broke."
.
.
.
She exhales slowly, just as the midwife instructs, when another contraction seizes her body and a cry escapes her lips.
"Okay, Mrs. Lei," the midwife urges, voice steady yet tender. "You're almost there. Keep pushing."
Her face tightens, sweat pearling across her brow.
Strands of damp curls cling to her skin. Her body arches with effort, muscles straining as she squeezes her husband's hand, their knuckles pale from the shared pressure.
It has been four hours since they arrived at the hospital, and more than twenty minutes since she began pushing.
She leans her back against the tub's wall, half-submerged in the warmth of the water.
Neva sobs, her head falling back. A gentle hand brushes through her hair, and she turns weakly toward Rhett. Her lips tremble.
"It hurts… it hurts so much," she whispers, tears streaking her cheeks.
"It'll be over soon," he murmurs, his voice low and steady as he presses a cool cloth to her brow. "You're doing so well."
He sits close, on a low chair beside the birthing tub, the water holding her in its warmth, reflecting the heat of her own body.
A nurse stands nearby, assisting the midwife as they guide her through the steady rhythm of an unmedicated birth.
Neva closes her eyes, sinking into the brief silence between contractions, drawing what strength she can from his nearness.
Another contraction surges through her.
"It's time. Push, Mrs. Lei," the midwife urges.
Neva bears down, her face twisted with pain. A raw groan tears from her throat—
and then nothing.
She collapses back, chest heaving. "I can't... I can't do this..."
Rhett leans closer, his calm expression belying the ache in his chest. "Yes, you can. I'm here. You've got this, Angel. Breathe," he whispers, his voice steady, drawing in a slow breath to show her the rhythm.
Whimpering, she mimics him, pulling air shakily into her lungs.
Another contraction claws through her body—sharper, crueler.
She cries out and pushes, once, twice—then again, three waves in relentless succession, her strength burning low, flickering like a candle in the wind.
"I see the head," the midwife announces. "Just a little more."
The nurse and midwife exchange quick glances, calm yet brimming with hope.
Neva, now in labor for nearly twelve hours, has never felt pain like this.
Her body burns; she feels as though it's being torn apart from the inside.
A cry rips from her—raw, primal, breaking—as she bears down again.
The midwife nods urgently. "You're almost there! One more push!"
"I... I can't—" Neva gasps, exhaustion and pain cracking her voice.
Rhett cups her face in his hands, anchoring her. "Look at me, Angel. Just one more. You're right at the end."
She clenches her teeth, eyes locked on his—and when the next contraction roars through, she squeezes her eyes shut.
Her whole being blurs. In that wild, near-death haze—when all seems about to vanish—she gives one final, fierce push with everything she has left.
A long, desperate scream splits the air.
And then—
A release.
A gasp. A slip. The water stirs. A breath catches in Rhett's throat.
The midwife lifts the baby up through the surface.
Neva collapses back, dazed, trembling, breathless.
"Oh my God," Rhett gasps, eyes wide with awe.
The baby cries—loud, sharp, insistent—and Neva blinks through her haze.
"10:21. September 11, 2019," the nurse announces.
It's... It's real.
"Are... Are you alright?" Rhett whispers, brushing sweat off her temple, still stunned.
Neva nods faintly, meeting his concerned eyes.
Her eyes trails to the nurse, who gently cleans and wraps the tiny newborn in a soft white cloth. Moments later, she places the bundle carefully onto Neva's chest.
She inhales shakily, folding her arms protectively around the tiny form. The baby quiets instantly, nestling into her warmth.
Rhett wraps his arms around them both, trembling. He presses a gentle kiss to her damp temple. "I'm so proud of you."
Neva's eyes lift to meet his. A faint smile flickers across her lips. He leans in, kissing her softly, slowly.
Their heads incline together, gazing down at the baby—pink and small, lightly coated in vernix, a trace of blood still on the towel. A tiny, sleepy sound escapes the newborn.
The nurse smiles at the sight. "Congratulations. You have a beautiful baby boy."
Neva's eyes brim with tears. Their boy. Their little boy. Her lips tremble with joy.
Then—for just a heartbeat—his lips curl. A miracle of a smile.
Neva gasps softly. "He has your smile," she whispers, looking up at Rhett.
His own eyes glisten as he leans to kiss her again. "Thank you," he murmurs.
Foreheads pressed together, he whispers, "You've made me the happiest man alive. I love you, Neva. So much..."
"I love you too," she breathes, eyes closed, relief and gratitude washing over her. Then her gaze drops to their son.
The baby's eyes are closed, his tiny hand curled near his cheek. Neva smiles, brushing a gentle hand over his head. "We love you too, little Rhean."
She lifts her eyes to Rhett, and he mirrors her awe, her devotion. A boundless love threads through them, already binding them to their son.
Their sunshine boy. The bud of their love.