The room was dimmer than I expected.
The lights were lowered, the curtains half drawn. A machine hummed softly beside the bed, steady and indifferent.
Ha-rin sat on the edge, shoulders tense.
"…You can lie back," the technician said gently.
Ha-rin did, hands folded over her stomach like she didn't know where else to put them.
The gel was cold.
She flinched.
"…Sorry," the technician said automatically. "It'll warm up."
Ha-rin nodded, jaw tight.
I stood near her head, close enough that she could see me if she turned, far enough not to be in the way.
The screen flickered.
At first, it was just shapes.
Static-like movement. Shadows. Nothing recognizable.
Ha-rin stared anyway.
"…That's it?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," the technician replied. "At first."
She moved the probe slightly.
The image shifted.
Then—
"…Oh."
Ha-rin inhaled sharply.
The shape resolved.
A curve.A small movement.
Something unmistakably there.
"…That's—" she stopped.
"Yes," the technician said calmly. "That's the baby."
Silence filled the room.
Ha-rin's fingers clenched into the sheet.
I felt my chest tighten.
The technician continued speaking, pointing things out in a neutral, practiced tone.
"Head position looks good.""Heart rate is steady.""Limbs are developing normally."
Words passed through the room like facts in a report.
But Ha-rin wasn't listening anymore.
She was staring at the screen.
Her eyes didn't blink.
"…It's moving," she whispered.
"Yes," the technician said with a smile. "They do that."
Ha-rin swallowed.
"…It's real," she said.
Not to the technician.
To herself.
I watched her expression change.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Recognition.
Her hand moved slowly, hesitantly, and rested against her stomach.
She didn't pull it away this time.
The technician glanced at me.
"…Would you like to come closer," she asked.
I hesitated for half a second.
Then stepped forward.
The screen looked different from this angle.
Clearer.
The shape wasn't abstract anymore.
It had weight.
Presence.
"…That's the heartbeat," the technician said, adjusting a setting.
The sound filled the room.
Fast.Steady.Unapologetically alive.
Ha-rin's breath caught.
"…It's loud," she said.
"Yes," the technician replied. "Strong, too."
She blinked rapidly.
"…I didn't think it would sound like that."
"It usually surprises people."
The technician finished a few more measurements, then wiped the gel away.
"…Everything looks healthy," she said. "You're right where you should be for this stage."
Ha-rin nodded.
She didn't speak.
The technician smiled again.
"…Do you want to know the gender today?"
Ha-rin stiffened.
She glanced at me.
I didn't answer.
I just waited.
"…No," she said after a moment. "Not yet."
The technician nodded without question.
"…That's fine. We'll note it."
She stood and stepped out, giving us a moment.
The room felt very quiet without her voice.
Ha-rin stayed lying back, eyes still on the darkened screen.
"…Did you see it," she asked softly.
"Yes," I replied.
"…It was smaller than I imagined."
"Yes."
"…But heavier," she added.
"That is accurate."
She laughed weakly.
"…You're terrible at this."
"I know."
She finally sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
"…I don't think I can joke about this today."
"That is acceptable."
She looked down at her hands.
"…I keep thinking I'm not ready."
"That is also common," I replied.
"…And yet," she said, "…it's already happening."
"Yes."
She stood slowly, steadier than before.
When she turned to me, her expression had changed.
Not softer.
Stronger.
"…Let's go," she said.
"Yes."
As we walked out of the room, she didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
Something had settled.
Not everything.
But enough.