The door closed.
The hallway smelled of disinfectant, stale coffee, and damp fabric. Marcos was still wearing his crematorium suit, wrinkled and stained by the incense. He sat down, stood up, walked around, and sat down again.
At 6:32 p.m., according to the admissions clock, a doctor left to request urgent authorization. At 6:41 p.m., a nurse walked in with blood on her gloves. At 6:49 p.m., no one was saying anything.
Then a cry was heard.
It wasn’t strong at first. It was sharp, broken, too small. But it pierced the corridor like a light breaking through a closed space.
Miguel was alive.
A nurse appeared with the baby wrapped in white cloth. It was tiny. Red. Furious. It struggled to breathe with a force that seemed too strong for such a small body. Marcos fell to his knees.
They let him see her for just a few seconds before taking her to neonatal intensive care. Marcos didn’t mind. Those few seconds were enough for him to know that something of Ana Clara was still fighting in the world.
