Voices began to rise. Footsteps rushed. Short cries echoed back and forth. Not like words of relief or gratitude, no, this was panic.
Then Nathan's body was lifted. Quickly. Cradled by someone, not Mama.
"Hey! What's happening?!" he screamed inside. But what came out was only more crying. His panic, his protests, were all trapped inside this tiny body that couldn't speak.
He was laid down onto something cold. A table?
A harsh light glared above him, stabbing into his eyes. His body was wiped down, roughly, or maybe it just felt rough because his skin was still too new. Gloved hands turned him over, pressed on his tiny chest, forced open his eyes, touched his stomach.
"Why is everyone panicking?! Why won't they give me to Mama?"
He tried to turn his head, but this body wouldn't obey. Only his eyes could roll a little.
A woman's voice cut through the noise. Sharp. Firm.
"SpO₂ is low. Bring the incubator. Prepare oxygen."
Nathan had no idea what SpO₂ meant. But the urgency in her tone made his small, fragile heart pound even faster.
"Why? What's wrong with me?"
He struggled to remember. Just moments ago, when he came out, he cried. Wasn't that supposed to mean he was fine?
"Where's Mama? Mama must be scared. Don't take me away from her…"
But his body was wrapped, pulled farther, and placed inside something transparent, cold, glowing from below.
Then the door shut.
And suddenly… silence.
Only the hum of machines.
And the beat of his own heart.
The voices around him grew more frantic.
Nathan felt his body lifted, then placed on a cold surface. A table. A harsh light above blinded him. His tiny hands were held, his body wiped down in quick strokes, then wrapped in a damp cloth.
He kept crying, but not from cold, not from pain, not even from the struggle to breathe.
He cried because he was afraid.
"What's happening? Why is everyone panicking? Why won't they give me to Mama?"
His fragile body writhed, but could go nowhere. He wanted to turn his head, to see Mama's face, to understand why that embrace had been so brief, mere seconds, if that. But everything was blurred. Noisy. Distant.
Then he caught a voice. A voice he knew. But this time… it was weak. Shattered. Like a whisper from a world slipping away.
"M-Mama… hemorrhage…" someone blurted.
A rush of footsteps. The rattle of wheels as a bed was pushed out in haste. A door opened. Closed. Only the heavy breaths of those still working on him remained.
Nathan went still. His sobs quieted, though his small chest trembled.
"Mama?"
No answer.
"Mama, what's happening? Why can't I see you?!"
His head felt hot. Not from fever. From fear too big for a body this small. He had known fear before, in another life. But never like this. Never this bare. Never this cold.
"Please…" he whispered in his heart. "Please be okay, Mama…"
But there was nothing he could do.
He was only a newborn, wrapped in cloth, sealed inside an incubator. And Mama, the only light making this new world feel safe, was caught between life and death.
Nathan didn't know what had happened to Mama.
After a flurry of hurried voices and words he couldn't understand, the delivery room door opened… then closed again. He wasn't taken to Mama. He was carried farther away.
A nurse pushed the clear plastic box down a quiet corridor. Cold lights from the ceiling reflected on the walls of his incubator. No embrace. No chest to rest on. Only the rattle of wheels and the breath of someone he didn't know.
The box was warm, yes.
But it wasn't Mama's warmth.
Not the warmth of a heartbeat cradling him from within.
Not the warmth of whispered words, or soft laughter, or a weary love still holding on.
This warmth was manufactured.
This warmth was, empty.
In a new room, he was laid down. Checked. Prodded. Fitted with a thin tube. Monitored by machines.
But Mama was not there.
Only unfamiliar voices. A nurse passing by, a hand brushing him, notes being taken. Yet none of them knew him. None of them called him son.
Nathan turned his head slightly. His eyes weren't strong enough to open fully, but he knew Mama wasn't in this room. And somehow… the room felt too big. Too quiet.
He clenched the air, then closed his eyes. He didn't cry. But he didn't sleep either.
In that silence, only one sentence rose from his tiny chest:
"God… please save Mama…"
He didn't know who he was speaking to. Didn't know if God would even hear the prayer of a newborn who couldn't yet speak. But he prayed anyway.
Because now, for the first time in this new life, Nathan understood:
the greatest fear wasn't being born.
It was losing home… before he ever had the chance to hold it.
Exhaustion.
After all the commotion, after all the pain and the loss he couldn't fully understand, Nathan finally drifted into sleep.
He had no idea for how long. In this world, there was no sun. No clock. No one to whisper, "It's morning, son."
Only the hum of machines. Only the artificial warmth of the lamp above his head.
He slept.
And in that sleep, everything was silent again. Perhaps too silent.
Until,
"WAAAA!"
The cry of another infant exploded from the box beside him. Loud. Piercing. Echoing through the room.
Nathan startled awake. His head twitched instinctively, his tiny body squirmed, and he groaned inwardly.
"Hey! Too loud! I'm trying to sleep here!"
But of course, what escaped his mouth wasn't words.
Only a thin, hesitant whimper.
"Uwaa…"
Nathan froze. Listening to his own voice. The cry was his, yet somehow it didn't feel like him. He still wasn't used to the sound of this new body.
"Oh, great. I sound like a baby chick," he thought. "Well duh, I am a baby."
The wailing from the next box went on, like a private ambulance siren that wouldn't stop. From a distance, footsteps approached. A nurse's gentle voice cooed at the other child. Slowly, the crying faded.
Silence again.
Nathan drew in a breath and let it out softly.
"What day is it now? Is Mama still… there?"
He wanted to fall asleep once more, but his heart was too restless. He wanted to speak, but his throat wasn't ready. He longed to know so much, yet all he had was this tiny body, unable to hold anything.
Not even the truth.
The wheels began to move again.
Nathan felt his crib sliding gently forward. He couldn't turn his head much, but his tiny body sensed every tremor, every jolt of the wheels against the cold, spotless hospital tiles.
Then the box stopped, right in front of a glass wall.
The air shifted.
Something was out there. Not a nurse's hands. Not the glow of machines.
His eyes cracked open, still hazy. The world beyond looked like shadows under water.