The days slipped away like sand through her fingers, and before Carol realized it, she was already lying in a hospital bed. The contractions came again and again, relentless as the tide—each one stole her breath, as if the child inside her were about to burst free. As she waited, her thoughts kept circling back to one tender, practical dilemma: What should she name her son?
At first, she had thought of naming him after his father—the man who had left her the moment he learned she was pregnant. But that name carried the shadow of abandonment and greed; she couldn't let her child inherit that burden. Between the nurses' gentle visits—small pauses filled with laughter meant to ease the strain—Carol weighed names in her mind.
"Name him Miguel," said the eldest nurse, the one whose fingertips were always stained with ink. "That was my grandson's name. He was an angel… before—" She trailed off into memory.
"Better Kaito!" interrupted the youngest, her eyes gleaming. "Like Kaito Shimotsuki—handsome, athletic, gold medalist at the last Olympics! That name brings good luck!" she said, nearly sighing like a fan.
"Ladies, please!" the third nurse cut in sharply. "We're not here to compete. Carol needs calm, not a naming committee."
Carol laughed, and her laughter loosened the knot of tension."Thank you, ladies… but I still don't know. I have to think about it," she said softly. Her weary smile was enough to make the three nurses glance at one another before quietly leaving the room.
When the hospital returned to its hush of machines and distant footsteps, Carol was alone again with her mental list: Joseph, Matthew, Noah, Kenji—names that drifted through her thoughts like leaves in the wind. Sleep brushed against her, but before she surrendered to it, a familiar voice stirred in her memory.
It wasn't a voice from her present, but one forged from hot iron and oil, from laughter in a forge and scolding wrapped in affection."Hey, little flea, come here—today I'll teach you how to shape this metal," she remembered, the scent of coal and smoke curling through her mind. "No, Flea! Don't put it like that!"—then a quick, dry kiss after the reprimand. "Snif… take care of yourself, will you? I wish I could rip the head off that bastard who left you…" The tenderness and anger in the memory mixed like water and fire.
It was her adoptive father's voice—the man who had given her a home, a name, and hands that knew the language of iron. That man—her anchor—had shaped her life with patience and steel. As the memory faded, something in her chest grew clear: that was the name she wanted to give.
The next morning, when the nurses returned with their laughter and cups of coffee, the room no longer held the same air of doubt. Carol placed a hand on her belly and smiled with the calm certainty of someone who has made her choice.
"Elian," she whispered. "Elian, my sweet boy. I know you'll grow strong and healthy."
She had chosen a name—and in silence, she offered it as a promise: a bet on the future, and on the man who had once cared for her when she was just a "little flea," small and stubborn amid metal and rain.