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That morning, the prison hospital was eerily silent—no shouting, no metal doors slamming. The midwife, a seasoned woman used to tragedy, felt uneasy.
“Who’s on the list?” the nurse asked.
“Inmate 1462,” came the reply. “Transferred last month. No family, no records. Barely speaks.”
Inside the dim cell, the pale woman lay motionless, hands resting on her swollen belly. The midwife approached gently. “I’ll help you deliver your baby,” she said, leaning in to examine her—then froze.
“There’s… no heartbeat,” she whispered, her face draining of color. “Call a priest!”
But just as despair set in, a faint sound broke through—soft, then steady. A heartbeat. The child was alive.
Labor came fast and brutal. The woman screamed, the guards restrained her, and the midwife fought for both lives. Hours passed until a tiny cry finally filled the air.
A frail baby boy, blue but breathing.
The midwife whispered, “Thank you, Lord.”
The inmate opened her eyes—and smiled for the first time.
