The words weren’t shouted. They weren’t even spoken aloud. They trembled inside Mariana’s head, barely holding shape. Her body was already speaking louder—trembling, pushing, tearing. But her soul? Her soul whispered a plea that didn’t make sense to anyone but her.
Her baby—Luno—was coming.
Not gently. Not peacefully.
He was being pulled into a world too bright, too cold, too loud.
And he cried.
From the moment the doctor’s gloved hands lifted him into the air, Luno wailed with all the fury his tiny lungs could muster. It wasn’t a sweet, newborn cry. It was a scream—full-bodied and unfiltered. A protest. A heartbreak. A desperate call for the only home he had ever known.
Inside her.
Mariana blinked through sweat and tears, unable to speak. The hospital lights buzzed overhead. Nurses rushed, the doctor’s voice came in distant waves. But all she heard was him—her baby, her Luno—crying so loudly it split her heart.
And then… the sound began to change.
His cry softened, not because he was comforted—but because he was tiring. His newborn voice fell into fragile sobs, until it dipped lower, raspier… slower. The moment hit Mariana harder than labor itself.
He was no longer part of her.
And he already missed her.
She reached out with shaking arms. The nurse gently placed Luno on her chest. He was red, slippery, real. His sobs quieted against her heartbeat.
Her lips found the crown of his head.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “You’re out now… but I’m still yours.”
The guilt of her silent plea—please, get out—burned hot behind her eyes. She hadn’t meant it. Not truly. But in the pain and pressure, the fear had cracked her open, and that selfish wish had leaked out.
And yet, here he was. Crying himself quiet. Still choosing her.
She held him tighter than she thought possible.
Not pushing away.
But pulling him in.
