The world had shrunk to rhythm.
Breathe.
Wait.
Brace.
Cry.
Breathe again.
Amelia didn't know how many hours had passed. The light through the window was grey now — the kind of colour that belonged neither to night nor morning.
Her mother's hand was still in hers, warm and steady, and a nurse's calm voice kept drifting through the fog.
"You're doing so well, Amelia. You're nearly there."
Nearly there.
She wanted to believe that.
Another contraction hit, and she folded forward with a broken sound — half scream, half prayer.
Her whole body trembled; tears ran freely down her cheeks.
"I can't," she gasped. "I can't do it, I can't—"
"Yes, you can, my love," her mother whispered, pressing her forehead to Amelia's. "Just one more breath. One more."
The air felt too thick to breathe.
She clutched at the sheet, at her mother's arm, at anything that tethered her to the world.
Then came a new sensation — a sharp, sudden pressure, followed by warmth.
The nurse's head snapped up. "Her waters have broken," she said, her tone switching from calm to brisk. "Get Dr. Patel, now."
Amelia let out a startled cry, more from shock than pain. "What— what's happening?"
"It's alright," the nurse said quickly, resting a hand on her shoulder. "This means your baby's ready. Just hold on. You're almost there."
The door opened, and the doctor stepped in, gloves already on, voice calm but commanding.
"Amelia, look at me," he said. "You're at eight centimetres — almost fully dilated. We're close now, do you hear me?"
She nodded weakly, unable to speak. Her lips were trembling too hard.
Her mother squeezed her hand, whispering, "You're so close, sweetheart. You're about to meet your baby."
The words hit something deep inside her.
Meet her baby.
Their baby.
A sob broke through her chest. "He's not here," she whispered. "He should be here."
Her mother's voice shook. "He is, darling. He's right here with you."
But Amelia shook her head violently, a sound of anguish tearing from her throat. "No, he's not— he's downstairs, asleep, and I'm— I'm doing this alone—"
The doctor leaned closer, his tone soft but sure. "You're not alone. You're surrounded. And he's waiting for both of you. Focus on getting there. I need you to stay with me."
Another contraction built, worse than all the others, a wave so big it swallowed the room.
She screamed this time — the sound raw, primal, echoing off the walls.
The nurse murmured encouragements she couldn't hear.
Her mother's tears dripped onto her hand. "That's it, my girl. Let it out. You're so strong."
Amelia's breath came in ragged gasps. "I don't feel strong—"
"You don't have to feel it," her mother said fiercely. "You just have to be it. And you are."
Between contractions, the room shifted into strange silence.
The snow outside had slowed, the air heavy and still.
She could hear the ticking of a clock somewhere, the faint hum of machines in the hall.
Every sound felt far away — except for one.
The steady beeping from the monitor beside her, keeping rhythm with her heartbeat and the baby's.
And in her mind, she imagined another — a fainter one, several floors below.
Alexander's monitor.
Beeping in time with hers.
That thought carried her through the next wave.
And the next.
By now, her hair was plastered to her forehead, her voice hoarse from crying.
The doctor checked her again, his expression calm but urgent.
"Almost ten," he said. "You're ready, Amelia. Just a little longer."
Her mother's voice was trembling. "You hear that? It's almost over."
Amelia laughed, a wild, broken sound. "Over? It's never over. Everything's just beginning."
The doctor smiled faintly. "Then let's begin."
The next contraction tore through her, and she cried out, the sound echoing in the sterile air.
Her mother's arms were around her, the nurse whispering steady encouragement, the doctor's voice low and firm — counting, guiding.
It felt endless.
The pain, the effort, the terror.
She didn't even know where her body ended and the world began anymore.
And then, in the middle of the chaos, something shifted — a stillness between two storms.
She went quiet.
The doctor's voice softened. "Amelia, listen to me. You're doing it. You're there."
Her mother brushed her tears away with shaking hands. "One more, darling. Just one more."
Amelia nodded weakly, whispering, "Please let him wake up. Please let him see this."
And then she bore down with every last ounce of strength she had left.
The world became sound and light and breath.
The snow outside stopped.
The machines hummed.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing.
No sound.
No thought.
Just the hollow quiet that comes right before a storm breaks into light.
And then—
A cry.
High, sharp, and impossibly alive.
The sound sliced through the air like the first sunrise after a long, black night.
Amelia's body went still.
For a second she couldn't breathe. The pain, the noise, the world itself—all blurred.
That single cry filled everything.
Her mother gasped beside her. "Oh, my darling… he's here."
The nurse's voice was soft but certain. "It's a boy."
A boy.
The words hit Amelia's chest like a wave.
She pressed a trembling hand to her face, tears spilling fast and hot.
"A boy," she whispered, as if the syllables themselves were too fragile to hold. "We have a son…"
Everything after that felt dreamlike.
The lights dimmed, the voices around her softened into a distant hum.
She watched through tears as the nurse wrapped the tiny body in a white blanket, her movements tender and reverent.
"Would you like to hold him?" the midwife asked gently.
Amelia nodded, too overcome to speak.
And then—warmth.
A weight so light she almost couldn't feel it, yet heavy with meaning.
They placed him against her chest, skin to skin, his cry quieting into small, uneven breaths.
He was so small.
So impossibly perfect.
A patch of dark hair already damp against her skin, his eyes squeezed shut, his lips trembling in soft confusion at the world.
Her mother's hand covered hers.
"Look at him," she whispered, voice breaking. "He looks like Alexander."
Amelia laughed through her tears. "He does, doesn't he?"
She brushed a fingertip over his cheek—softer than anything she'd ever touched.
"Hello, my love," she murmured. "I'm your mum. And that heartbeat you've been listening to all this time—" she smiled faintly, tears still falling, "—that's me."
The baby stirred, his tiny fist closing around the fabric of her gown.
Her chest ached with love and disbelief.
Minutes passed—or maybe hours.
She couldn't tell.
Time had collapsed into the rhythm of his breathing and the soft beeps of the monitors.
Nurses moved quietly around them, checking vitals, cleaning instruments, murmuring congratulations that barely reached her.
All she could see was him.
Her mother leaned closer. "Do you have a name?"
Amelia blinked slowly, her thumb tracing tiny circles over the baby's hand.
"We… we were supposed to choose together," she whispered.
Her mother's eyes softened. "You don't have to decide tonight."
"No," Amelia said quietly, her voice trembling. "I'll wait for him. We'll decide together, just like we planned."
Her mother smiled faintly through her tears. "He'll love that."
Amelia nodded, pressing her cheek against the baby's soft head.
"He has to know everything," she whispered. "Every moment. He deserves to be part of this."
For a long time, there was only silence.
The storm outside had finally stopped, and the snow had turned to soft rain.
In the faint grey light filtering through the window, mother and son looked almost painted into stillness—one heart where there had been two.
Amelia pressed her lips to his forehead, whispering so quietly it was almost a thought.
"You came early, little one. You couldn't wait for your dad, could you?"
Her voice broke. "He's just downstairs, love. Sleeping for a bit. But he'll wake up soon. I know he will."
The nurse smiled from across the room. "He's a strong boy," she said gently. "And so is his mother."
Amelia laughed weakly. "His mother is exhausted."
Her mother squeezed her shoulder. "And braver than anyone I've ever met."
Amelia looked down again at the baby—at the small rise and fall of his chest—and something inside her stilled.
The fear, the pain, the chaos—it all folded into a single, fragile peace.
When the nurses finally dimmed the lights, her mother curled up in a chair beside the bed.
Amelia stayed awake, tracing tiny circles on her son's back with the tip of her finger.
Outside, the first morning light began to stretch across the horizon, washing the snow in pale gold.
The hospital was quiet now—too quiet—and in that silence she whispered:
"Your dad always said the world looked different after a storm."
She smiled faintly, eyes closing as exhaustion finally began to pull her under.
"I think he was right."
And with her son's breathing soft against her skin, she drifted into the first real sleep she'd had in days—
the kind of sleep that feels like a promise.