That night, my shift smelled of miracles.
The maternity ward was welcoming two little angels—babies who had come into their parents’ lives after 15 long years of waiting.
The first newborn arrived. They handed him to me like an autumn leaf—cold, motionless, with closed eyes.
He was gone.
They told me to inform the necessary people to begin the formalities.
But my hands had learned that hope always has another warm blanket.
When I hurriedly placed him beside the heater, it felt as if destiny sat down beside him, too.
And just as I was washing and drying his twin brother, I heard it:
“His tiny hiccups were like the fluttering wings of a butterfly against the skin of time.”
I pulled back the blanket and saw him—calm, eyes still closed, sucking on his hand.
I screamed—a loud, piercing cry—and called the doctor.
The doctor, astonished, said,
"Your warmth brought him back. Good thing you kept him warm."
But I knew...
it was God's command, translated into the language of the heater.
A month later, I received that gold ring from parents who were looking for the chubby, green-eyed midwife with the loud scream—
not because of my scream,
but because of the quiet whisper I had once said:
"Even death has no right to enter without permission..."
"Until destiny allows, there is no final line in the story..."
