The rain had been falling for hours. It poured from the black sky in steady sheets, soaking the forest and fields, and hammering down on the roof of a small house made of logs, clay, and straw. Smoke from the chimney mixed with the mist outside, rising into the night.
Inside, the house was dimly lit by a few lanterns and the orange glow of the fireplace. The walls were old and rough, patched with mud and hay. Everything smelled of earth, smoke, and something sharp-blood and herbs.
A woman lay on a bed of blankets and straw. Her face was pale, lips dry, hair stuck to her face with sweat. Her body shook with pain. She was giving birth.
Around her were three elderly women-neighbors from the village, doing what they could to help. They worked with calm hands, but their eyes were focused. One held the mother's hand. Another was at her feet, waiting, guiding. The third was crushing herbs in a wooden bowl and whispering something soft.
"Keep breathing," one of them said. "Stay with us. You're doing well."
The woman gritted her teeth and cried out as another wave of pain hit her. Her back arched, fingers clawing at the cloth beneath her.
Near the door, a man paced back and forth. He was strong-looking, but now he seemed smaller, helpless. His boots were wet with mud from running outside, his face tense, eyes locked on his wife every time she cried out.
He had no words. Just worry.
He had helped build this house with his own hands. Now, it felt like the walls might fall in around him. All he could do was wait, pray, and hope the child and his wife would survive the night.
"Please," he whispered under his breath, eyes on the floor. "Just let them both be safe."
Minutes passed. Time felt strange.
Then came the moment.
"Push!" one of the women said sharply.
The mother screamed. Her hands clutched the edge of the bed. Her whole body trembled.
And then - A sound filled the room. A baby's cry.
It was thin and weak at first, but then louder, stronger.
The women smiled. One of them lifted the child in the dim firelight.
"It's a boy," she said.
The mother fell back, eyes wide with tears. Her breath was short, but she was smiling. "My son," she whispered.
The baby was placed near her chest on the bed, still bloody and squirming, but very much alive. She held him as if nothing else in the world mattered.
The man stepped closer, slowly, unsure if he should speak. But when he saw the child, everything inside him softened.
He knelt next to his wife, saw his child and became tearful.
"You did it." he said quietly. Only a face of fading anxiety could be seen in those dim light.
She looked at him, just for a second. Her lips parted as if to speak. But instead, her eyes rolled back and she slipped into unconsciousness, her body finally giving in to the exhaustion.
The man caught her hand.
"She's just out," one of the elderly women said gently. "She needs rest."
He nodded, unable to speak. He sat there in the flickering firelight, holding the newborn close, holding his wife's hand, listening to the soft breath of the baby and the calming hush of rain on the roof.
Outside, the storm was beginning to fade.
Inside, life had begun.