**Whispers Beyond the Glass**
The care assistant, a woman with a weary, wind-bitten face and eyes dulled from years of witnessing others suffering, shifted Alices clear plastic bag from one calloused hand to the other. The crinkle of the polythene shattered the tomb-like silence of the lift. Inside the bag, like some cruel joke, lay a scattering of baby clothesa tiny pink romper with rabbits, a onesie embroidered “Mummys Little Joy,” and a pack of nappies in white and blue trim. The packaging boasted a bold, mocking number: *1*, for newborns just beginning their journey.
The lift groaned as it descended, its frayed cables protesting with every floor. With each passing level, Alices heart twisted tighter, collapsing into a small, helpless knot of grief.
“Dont fret, love,” the care assistant rasped, her voice like the creak of an unlubricated hinge in an empty house. “Youre young, strong. Youll have more. Things will sort themselves out Youll heal.”
She cast Alice a sideways glance, full of awkward pity, as if desperate for the ordeal to end.
“Any other children?” she asked, filling the suffocating silence.
“No” Alice exhaled, staring at the blinking floor buttons. Her voice was hollow.
“Ah, thats harder” The woman sighed. “Have you decided? Burial or cremation?”
“Burial,” Alice whispered, pressing her lips together until they whitened. Her reflection in the grimy, scratched lift mirror showed a face she barely recognisedpale, gutted.
The care assistant sighed with practised sympathy. Shed seen thousands like Alice. Young, old, broken. Life in these walls was divided into *before* and *after*. For Alice, *after* had just begun.
She was leaving the maternity ward alone. No pink or blue ribbons. No soft gurgles from a carefully swaddled bundle. No smiles, congratulations, or bewildered relatives clutching winter-fresh carnations. There was only her husband, James, waiting at the foot of the hospital stairs, shoulders slumped as if bearing the weight of the world. And inside her, a vast, icy emptiness, ringing in her ears, stealing her breath.
James hugged her stiffly, awkwardly, like a stranger afraid of causing more pain. His arms didnt comfort. They were a formality, a ritual to endure. Without a word, without the silly, cherished photos by the exit, they left. The automatic doors hissed shut behind them, sealing away a chapter of their lives.
“Ive already erm” James cleared his throat as the engine coughed to life. “Been to the funeral directors. Everythings arranged for tomorrow. If you want to change anythingthe wreaths white, small. The coffins beige, with pink” His voice cracked.
“It doesnt matter,” Alice interrupted, staring at the fogged window. “I cant talk about this now.”
“Right. Erm” He gripped the wheel, knuckles white.
How cruelly bright the December sun shone! Glaring off puddles, flashing from passing cars, shouting of life where there was none. Where was the wind? The lashing rain? The wet, clinging snow, like Gods spit for her sins? That would have been fair. That would have been honest.
They passed the checkpoint, rolling onto the sun-drenched street. Alice looked absently at their car, its sides streaked with grime.
“Filthy, isnt it?”
“Meant to wash it. Three days ago, but then well.”
“Are you ill?” Alice turned to him.
“No. Why?”
“You keep coughing.”
“Nerves. Just nerves.”
The world outside hadnt changed. The same city, the same streets lined with cigarette butts, the same skeletal trees against the grey facades of postwar houses. A cloudless, shamelessly blue sky. A rusted school fence, freshly graffitied with a love confession. Pigeons puffing on telephone wires. The endless grey tarmac leading nowhere.
It was unbearable.
* * *
At three months pregnant, Alice had fallen ill. First a sore throat, then fever, body aches. Just a cold, shed thought. But likely flu. Antibiotics followed. The doctors reassured herthe baby was safe. Then, a strange rash on her back. The infectious disease specialist dismissed it as herpes, prescribing strong antivirals. Guilt-ridden, Alice took them. They didnt work. Another doctora dermatologistlaughed. *Allergies, stress!* A harmless cream, and the rash vanished.
By her due date, contractions beganweak, barely noticeable. At the hospital, the midwife shook her head. “False labour. We need to stop it.” Two IV drips later, the contractions worsened. By morning, her cervix had dilated. They broke her watersclear, no infection. Then the induction drip. Six hours in, the monitor showed the babys heartbeat slowing. *Hypoxia.*
“C-section,” the doctor said.
The operation was quick, successful. A girl. Small, dark-haired, crying. They placed her on Alices chest for five perfect minutes.
The next time Alice saw her, she was in intensive care, tubes everywhere, a ventilator breathing for her. Blood trickled from her tiny mouth.
“Pneumonia,” the consultant said, avoiding her eyes. “Likely from infected amniotic fluid. The same pathogen you had while pregnant.”
On the third day, as hope flickered, Alice sat in her room, pumping colostrum, praying. James, for the first time in years, lit a candle in church. Later, theyd rename the babyan old superstition, whispered by a relative. They chose a strong, ancient name.
Then the consultant entered.
“Im so sorry, Alice.”
* * *
Through the car window, faces blurred paststrangers, indifferent, rushing about their lives. There should have been three of them in that car. Now there were two again. Only now, a chasm lay between them.
*”Im so sorry”what a stupid, hollow phrase!* Alice seethed inside. *How do you live when the world has stopped?*
Relatives murmured about suing, blaming the doctors. Alice didnt care. Moving, speakingeverything required inhuman effort. Shed return to work after New Years. Staying home, surrounded by baby clothes she couldnt bear to discard, was madness.
They spent Christmas at her parents snow-drenched cottage. The silence was deafening. On Christmas Eve, they lit the saunato wash away the hospitals stain. The men went first. Alice joined her mother past midnight, sitting in the warmth as sleep tugged at her.
“Mum,” she murmured. “Did you ever see anything? When you tried?”
Her mother hesitated. “Once. A shadow in the mirrors. We ran.”
Alice dozed off.
In her dream, she was home. Sunlight filled the nursery. The cribwhite, carvedstirred. A tiny girl lay there, alive, smiling.
“Mummy,” she said, clear as a bell. *”Dont cry. Youll have a daughter. Call her Emily. Ill always be with you.”*
Alice woke sobbing, lighter somehow, as if a mountain had crumbled.
* * *
Time healed, slowly. Alice packed away the baby clothes, keeping only a pink rattle. Work, routinelife dragged her forward. Doctors warned: no pregnancy for two years. But fate intervened. A year and a half later, she knewbefore the test, before the delay. The antibiotics in her hand felt wrong. A voice*her* voiceshouted inside her.
*”DONT YOU DARE!”*
She refused the termination. The pressure was relentless*irresponsible, selfish, youll have a disabled child!* Only James stood by her.
Two weeks before birth, she was hospitalised. Her new roommate introduced herself.
“Im Alice.”
“Im Emily.”
Alice froze. *Emily*the name from her dream.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“*Reborn*,” the woman smiled.
The next day, Alice gave birth. Fast, easy. A healthy girl. *Her* Emily.
Discharge day. March sunlight, bold and joyful. Alice shielded her daughters face, smiled at the sky, and whispered, *”Thank you.”*
