The fluorescent lights of the hospital room flickered softly above, casting a pale glow over white sheets and sterile walls. Machines beeped quietly, whispering clinical reminders of life and death. The sharp scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air.
In the corner, six-year-old Amara stood barefoot, her small hands clenched in front of her. Her dark eyes, wide with pain and confusion, were fixed on the motionless bundle in her mother’s arms. The baby had been born just hours earlier—silent.
“She didn’t make it,” the doctor had said gently. “We’re so sorry.”
The words hadn’t fully reached Amara. How could they? For months, she had sung to her baby sister through her mother’s belly, whispered secrets, picked out names. She had even made a tiny bracelet from pink yarn and plastic beads that spelled Hope.
That was what they were going to call her—Hope. Her mother, pale and weak, had no more tears to cry. Her father stood beside her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other trembling. The nurses were starting to gently suggest that it was time to…...Read Full Story Here.………………..
