The dim room smelled of burning candles and faint herbs. A single oil lamp flickered on the bedside table, casting golden shadows on the cracked wooden walls. Outside, the rain pounded on the tin roof, drowning out any sounds from the rest of the world. Inside, however, there was only one sound that mattered—the deep, labored breathing of a woman about to bring life into it.
"Almost there, just one more push!" urged the woman crouched between her knees, her voice steady but filled with urgency. Her hands were stained with blood, her forehead glistening with sweat.
The young mother—barely in her twenties—clutched at the stained bedsheets, her face contorted in pain. Her hair, soaked with perspiration, clung to her cheeks like vines. Every breath was a battle, every push a mountain. But she didn't scream. She was holding on for something greater.
With one final, desperate cry, she bore down—and then it happened.
A wet, squirming infant slipped into the midwife's waiting hands, slick with blood and coated in vernix. A sharp cry followed as the baby filled its lungs for the first time. The woman's eyes widened with a mixture of terror and wonder.
"It's a boy!" the midwife announced, her smile lighting up her tired face.
She carefully clamped and then cut the umbilical cord, the lifeline that had just connected mother and child. The snip echoed softly in the room, followed by the sound of water being poured into a basin.
Instead of the usual hospital method, the mother's own mother—an older woman with sharp eyes and hands rough from years of labor—began cleaning the child using a warm herbal mixture, her movements methodical, almost ritualistic.
"Thank you... Please, give him to me. I want to see him," the young mother whispered, arms reaching out with trembling fingers.
The midwife gently handed her the child, now wrapped in a thin cloth. Time seemed to pause.
The baby's eyes fluttered open briefly, and a soft sigh escaped his lips as he nestled into his mother's arms. She stared down at him, eyes misting with tears—of pain, yes, but also love.
"He's so cute… I bet he'll be handsome when he grows up. Just like his father."
The older woman let out a dry chuckle. "He does look like him."
Then, under her breath, a whisper barely audible:
"Does he even have a father?"
No one seemed to hear.
Except for him.
'So… this is my mother.'
Yes, you guessed it. That child—those blinking eyes and that deep silence—held the soul of someone who had lived before.
A soul reborn.
'This will do,' the infant thought.
"Ma'am, what name shall we give him?" asked the midwife, now cleaning the used linens.
The young mother glanced at the newborn again, smiled, and said with quiet pride,
"Vaughn. Vaughn Labre."
"Wow, alright. I'll go call Larz," the midwife replied before stepping out.
As the door creaked open, a small boy peeked in—a barefoot child around six, his face full of curiosity. The midwife smiled at him on her way out.
"That's your baby brother, Vaughn!" she called.
The little boy blinked, then groaned loudly.
'So, we're three now, huh.' Vaughn noted from within the swaddle.
Then the door slammed shut with a loud BANG!
"MOM!" the boy shouted. "This baby's so loud!"
The mother chuckled faintly, exhausted. "And you're not?"
She pulled Vaughn close to her chest, gently rocking him while the older child stomped around, still annoyed.
It was chaotic. Loud. Imperfect.
But in that moment, it was enough.