The Room Where It Begins

In the nursery, the late afternoon light spilled across the pale walls, warm and mellow. Lin Shuang sat on the edge of the bed, her elbows resting on her knees, hands folded. Her gaze was fixed on the tiny figure lying beside her.

Li Anqi was napping. Not the restless, fussy sleep of a newborn. Her soft little chest rose and fell under the light cotton wrap, a milk bubble clinging to the corner of her lips.

Lin Shuang leaned forward slightly, brushing an invisible dust from the baby's blanket. But her hand lingered, hovering near her daughter's cheek as if afraid to touch too much.

"You've changed so quickly," she murmured, not expecting a reply. Her voice was quiet, tender. "Just a few days ago, you were so small, so tiny… that I sometimes thought you would break if I didn't hold you properly."

A flicker of emotion passed through her eyes, warmth laced with something deeper. Not sadness, but the weight of something she couldn't name.

She had feared so much.

And now… this little girl, this tiny life, had grown plumper, stronger, more lively.

"You're so small," she whispered with a faint laugh, "but somehow, you make everything feel full."

Li Anqi stirred in her sleep, letting out a soft grunt — like she was disagreeing with the world.

Lin Shuang smiled, that full, aching kind of smile only a mother could have. She reached down and gently cradled one of her daughter's curled fists in her palm.

"I wonder what you're dreaming about," she said. "You always look like you're thinking about things. Like you came here with secrets."

The room was quiet again. Peaceful.

"You don't have to tell me," she added softly. "Just… stay with me, Grow, Laugh, Cry if you need to. I'll be here."

She sat in silence for a few more minutes, rocking gently, her thumb still stroking the baby's hand. Outside the window, a bird chirped. Somewhere in the house, Li Zixuan's footsteps echoed faintly, probably hunting for snacks again.

And here, in this little corner of the world, Lin Shuang let herself rest, just for a moment... knowing that in this moment, her daughter was safe, and that was enough.

Flashback

Haicheng Maternity Hospital.

3:47 a.m.

The room was a blur of shouting, sweat, and cold fluorescent light.

"She's crashing! Get the OB back in here!"

The nurse's voice cut through the chaos, sharp with panic. Monitors made noises loudly, the screeching alarms bouncing off the tiled walls. The young mother on the table... pale, drenched in tears and blood, whimpered through clenched teeth. Her fingers clutched the sheet beneath her as another wave of pain crashed through her body.

"The baby's heart rate is dropping too fast!"

"Fetal distress... get suction ready. We might have to intervene."

Doctors swarmed. Gloves snapped. The Lights tilted downward. The mother, Lin Shuang, gasped, half-conscious. "My baby… is she…"

"She's coming," a nurse said softly, voice rehearsed. "Just hold on, Miss Lin. Stay with us."

There was no time for comfort. The pressure built like a storm. One final push. One last scream that tore the air like glass.

Then silence.

Too much silence.

No cries. No soft wail. No life.

The nurses froze, stunned by the stillness of the newborn girl now lying limp in the doctor's hands. Tiny. Fragile. Still.

"Is she...?" one whispered, not daring to finish.

The doctor moved quickly, checking the cord, pulse, and airways. "Start compressions," he barked. "Don't stop. We've got twenty seconds."

A nurse prepared the tiny oxygen mask, hands trembling. Another counted out chest compressions in a steady rhythm.

The mother's eyes fluttered open. "Why isn't she crying?"

No one answered.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Nothing.

Twenty.

The hospital room was too quiet.

A nurse held her breath as the doctor checked the newborn's pulse again, his brow tight.

The monitors blinked. The tiny body on the table was still, almost peaceful in its silence.

Another nurse moved to prepare the defibrillator, but the doctor raised a hand a silent signal.

One more minute.

One more chance.

Seconds passed.

Nothing.

The baby had arrived and then, almost instantly, slipped away.

And then...

A sound.

A soft, choked gasp.

Then another. A rasping inhale, weak and unsure, but real.

The baby's chest lifted. Her tiny body twitched. And then came the smallest of cries, hoarse and broken as if the soul inside her had only just remembered how to breathe.

Everyone froze.

The mother broke into sobs.

"She's alive," someone whispered. "She's breathing."

But none of them could explain what had happened.

Because at that exact moment, just as her life had seemed to slip away,

someone else had arrived.