The autumn light poured through the hospital window in slow, golden waves—thick and warm like honey, catching every dust mote and turning it into a drifting star. The room smelled of sharp antiseptic and the faint metallic tang of birth, but underneath it all was something sweeter, indescribable: the scent of new life, of a soul arriving exactly where it was meant to be.
Amelia Rose—thirty-two, exhausted, radiant—lay propped against pillows, her newborn daughter cradled against her chest. The baby was tiny, seven pounds even, skin still flushed pink from the journey, dark hair damp and curling at the ends. She rooted softly, small sounds of contentment rising as she latched, the quiet rhythm of nursing filling the room like a lullaby.
Daniel sat beside them, hand resting on Amelia’s shou
Aksara