He stared at the tiny bundle placed in Lina’s arms—pink, impossibly small, and alive. Lina’s eyes were glassy but smiling, her fingers curling protectively around their daughter. For a moment, the room’s clinical chill vanished, replaced by the hum of something fragile, perfect, and utterly new. Ethan thought his chest might burst.
Later, in recovery, Lina drifted in and out of light sleep. Their daughter lay swaddled beside her, shifting quietly. Ethan wanted to mark the moment somehow, do something more than just sit there holding her hand. He thought of flowers. It would be a splash of color against hospital white. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered.