Winter was approaching rapidly, and the cold seeped through the stone walls of William and Elisha's house, making the wait for the birth even more unsettling. The fire in the hearth burned low, and the scent of fresh herbs—lavender and rosemary—filled the room, spread by the midwife who murmured quiet blessings and ancient advice, like someone repeating a prayer. It was night, and the wind blew outside, knocking on the windows like a silent omen.
When the first contractions began, Elisha tried to hide the pain from William, hoping to ease the fear on his face. She held his hand and tried to smile.
"It's going to be okay," she whispered, despite the tightness in her chest. But inside, a feeling of unease had already settled.
The midwife, an elderly woman with experienced and steady hands, guided Elisha with a low and comforting voice. With each word, William felt that something invisible held him there, unable to do more than watch—an impotent observer before the primal force of that moment.
As the hours passed, the labor became a battle. Elisha sweated and trembled, her breathing broken by groans of pain. Her fingers gripped William's hand with unexpected strength, as if he were her anchor amid a turbulent sea.
"Elisha..." William tried to say something, anything to comfort her, but his voice came out weak and broken. He didn't know what to say and felt her pain as if it were his own.
The room seemed increasingly cramped, and time felt endless. The midwife's expression, once calm, now showed signs of concern. She exchanged a quick glance with her assistant, a young apprentice with frightened eyes, who held cloths and basins of hot water. The heavy silence in the air, interrupted only by Elisha's groans and the midwife's instructions, seemed to foreshadow a moment of sadness.
"Come on, dear, breathe... Breathe deeply..." the midwife whispered, encouraging Elisha.
But with each attempt, Elisha seemed to lose a bit more of her strength. The pain became unbearable, an endless torment. Her forehead was damp, and her lips trembled as she looked at William, her eyes fixed on his as if seeking one last spark of hope.
"William..." she murmured through tears. "Something... something is wrong."
William felt his heart race but tried to hide the panic consuming him. He wanted to believe that everything would turn out fine, that the nightmare would end in an instant with the strong and healthy cry of their child. But Elisha's desperate look disarmed him, making any illusion impossible.
Time continued dragging on, turning each minute into an eternity. Finally, when Elisha was on the brink of exhaustion, a muffled and weak cry was heard. The midwife held in her arms a tiny being—a pale and fragile child, covered in blood and sweat. She looked at the baby without expression, while the others in the room held their breath, waiting for some sign of life.
But the silence was absolute. The midwife's face grew tense, and the sadness in her eyes revealed the tragedy that had just occurred.
Elisha extended her arms, her body trembling and fragile but determined. When the midwife placed the baby in her arms, Elisha knew immediately. The child's skin was cold, and the small body showed no sign of life. It was like holding a shadow.
"No... no..." she murmured, tears streaming down her face as she pressed the baby against her chest, as if her warmth could rekindle life in its body.
William, beside her, felt a void open in his chest, like an abyss impossible to fill. He wanted to cry, to scream, to take Elisha in his arms and say that everything would be okay, but he couldn't. He was paralyzed, lost between horror and disbelief. All he could do was watch, his heart pounding painfully, as Elisha wept, her lament echoing through the house.
Elisha spent the following days locked in the room, refusing to eat or speak to anyone. The pain had consumed every part of her, and her only companion was silence—a heavy and oppressive silence, broken only by the whispers of those who tried, unsuccessfully, to console her. William, in turn, felt torn between his role as village leader and the grief growing inside him—a deep pain that followed him at every step. Even as he walked among the villagers, he felt the weight of loss like an invisible chain keeping him bound to the ground.
Still, William knew he needed to move forward, both for Elisha and for the inhabitants of Entir. The village depended on him to maintain order and peace, and he couldn't afford to show weakness. He held back his tears, hiding the pain in his gaze, forcing a smile that seemed heavier each day.
Days turned into weeks, and Elisha's pain remained, now a part of her. William tried to give her strength, but she was distant, enveloped in a shadow that neither of them could dispel.
Then an unexpected change appeared on the horizon. After weeks of mourning, a storm began to form. The sky darkened, and the wind howled as if nature itself were in agony. The storm lasted for days—a phenomenon of unusual force that seemed impossible by Entir's standards. Trees were uprooted, house roofs collapsed, and fear spread among the villagers. Never before had such devastation been recorded in the village.
On the darkest night of the storm, William heard a strange sound at the door. At first, he thought it was just the wind or the rustling of leaves, but the sound persisted, like a silent plea for attention. He got up and walked to the door, his heart racing, as if something inexplicable was drawing him.
Opening the door, he found a sight that left him speechless. There, amid the rain and wind, was a small figure wrapped in a dark blanket—a baby, crying with all its might, its eyes full of life and despair.
William looked at the baby, unsure if this was a blessing or a curse. But upon hearing the baby's cry, he felt a spark of hope ignite in his heart.