He crept closer, peeking in.
At that moment, Daniel was standing by the window, rubbing his eyes, exhausted. He turned and noticed the small figure in the doorway.
“Hey,” Daniel said gently. “You can’t be in here.”
Noah didn’t move. He just pointed.
“The baby’s cold,” he said.
Daniel blinked. “What?”
“The baby needs mud,” Noah added seriously.
Daniel sighed, assuming this was just the strange logic of a child who had seen too much and understood too little.
“I think you should go,” he said softly.
Noah hesitated, then backed away.
But he didn’t forget.
The next morning, it rained.
By noon, the courtyard outside the hospital had turned into thick, dark mud. Noah knelt beside a puddle, pressing his hands into it thoughtfully.
“My mom used mud,” he murmured.
No one had ever asked about Noah’s mother, but in his memory, she existed clearly. She had rubbed cool clay on his stomach when he was sick. She said it pulled pain out. She said the earth listened.
That afternoon, while a nurse stepped out briefly and Daniel was in the cafeteria, Noah slipped into Room 417.
His shoes squelched quietly.
He climbed onto the chair beside the bed, careful, serious. With both hands, he scooped the mud from his pockets and gently spread it across Emily’s belly.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’m helping.”
For illustrative purposes only
At that exact moment, a nurse walked in.
“What—!” she gasped.
Noah froze, hands still.
Security was called. Doctors rushed in. Daniel came running, heart pounding.
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