**Whispers Through the Glass**
The nurse, a woman with a weary, wind-beaten face and eyes dulled by years of witnessing others’ suffering, awkwardly shifted Alices transparent bag from one calloused hand to the other. The plastic crinkled sharply, shattering the heavy silence of the lift. Inside the bag, like a cruel joke, lay a jumble of tiny, cheerful baby clothesa little pink onesie with rabbits, a soft white babygro embroidered with *”Mummys Little Joy,”* and a packet of nappies, pristine white with blue trim. The packaging boasted a large, bold *”1″*for newborns. For those just beginning their journey.
The lift groaned as its worn cables carried them slowly down to the ground floor, and with each passing level, Alices heart clenched tighter, folding into a small, helpless knot of pain.
“Itll be alright, love,” the nurse rasped, her voice like the creak of an unoiled hinge in an empty house. “Youre young, strong. Youll have others. Itll all work out”
She shot Alice a fleeting, sideways glance, brimming with awkward sympathy and a desperate eagerness for this torturous descent to end.
“Older children?” she asked, breaking the suffocating silence.
“No” Alice exhaled, staring blankly at the flickering floor buttons. Her voice was hollow, lifeless.
“That makes it harder” the nurse murmured. “Whatve your family decided? Burial or cremation?”
“Well bury her,” Alice whispered, pressing her lips together until they turned white. Her gaze fell to the lifts scratched, grimy mirror, reflecting a face she barely recognisedpale, emptied.
The nurse sighed, almost professionally. Shed seen thousands like Alice. Young, old, broken. Life in these walls divided itself into *before* and *after*. And for Alice, *after* had just begun.
She was leaving the maternity ward alone. No frilly pink or blue ribbons. No happy gurgles from a carefully swaddled bundle. No smiles, no congratulations, no flustered, beaming relatives clutching modest winter bouquets. Just her husband, James, waiting at the foot of the hospital steps, his eyes downcast, shoulders slumped as if bearing an unbearable weight. And inside her, a vast, icy hollownessringing in her ears, stealing her breath.
James hugged her stiffly, uncertainly, like a stranger afraid his touch might deepen the wound. His arms offered no warmth. It was just a formality, a ritual to endure. Without a word, without the silly, precious photos by the exit they shouldve taken, they stepped out into the cold. The doors hissed shut behind them, sealing away a chapter of their lives forever.
“Ive already erm” James cleared his throat as the car lurched to life, the engine growling dully. “Been to the funeral directors. Those vultures. Set everything up for tomorrow. But if you if you want to change anything. The wreaths white, small. The coffins beige, with pink” His voice cracked.
“Doesnt matter,” Alice interrupted, staring at the fogged-up window. “I cant I cant talk about this now.”
“Right. Erm” He coughed again, fingers tightening on the wheel.
How cruelly bright the December sun shone! It glittered in puddles, glared off windscreens, danced on passing carsshouting about life where there was none. Where was the wind? The lashing rain? The wet, spiteful snow sticking to her face like Gods spit for her sins? That wouldve been fair. That wouldve been honest.
They drove in silence past the hospital gates onto the sunlit street. Alices eyes lingered absurdly on the grime-streaked side of their car.
“Filthy, isnt it?”
“Meant to wash it days ago. Then well.”
“Are you ill?” She turned to him.
“No. Why?”
“You keep coughing.”
“Just nerves. Throats tight.”
The world outside hadnt changed. The same city, the same pavements littered with cigarette butts, the same skeletal trees framing the drab grey of postwar houses. A mercilessly blue sky. A rusted school fence, someones fresh graffiti declaring love. Pigeons puffing up on telephone wires. The endless grey ribbon of tarmac leading nowhere. Everything the same. And it was unbearable.
—
Alice had first felt unwell during her third month. A sore throat, then fever, body aching. Flu, shed thought. The doctors reassured herno harm done, the baby was safe. After recovery, a strange rash bloomed on her back. The specialist dismissed it as herpes, prescribed strong antivirals. Guilt-ridden, she took them. They didnt work. Another doctor scoffedallergies, stress! A harmless cream cleared it. The scare faded. Alice breathed easier, nest-building, waiting.
On her due date, weak contractions began. The midwife checked her. “False labour. Well stop it.” Two doses later, the pain worsened. By morning, she was in real labour. They broke her watersclear, no infection. Hours of agony. Then the monitors alarmthe babys heartbeat fading. “Hypoxia,” the midwife whispered. The doctors hand on her damp forehead: “Emergency C-section.” Too exhausted to protest, Alice nodded.
The operation was quick, successful. A girl. Healthy, crying. Placed briefly at Alices breast. Thengone. Five minutes of joy. Next time she saw her daughter, it was in intensive care, tubes snaking from her tiny body, blood at the corner of her lips.
“Pneumonia,” the consultant muttered. “From infected fluids. Likely the same bug you had. Its hard to fight.”
On the third day, as hope flickered, Alice sat pumping colostrum, praying desperately. James, for the first time in years, lit a church candle. A superstitious relative whispered the babys name was ill-fated. Foolish, but they chose anotherstrong, ancient.
And then the consultant entered. “Im so sorry, Alice.” The words dissolved into medical jargon, but the meaning was clear. It was over.
—
Faces flickered past rain-streaked car windows. Strangers, indifferent. There shouldve been three of them in the car. Now, just two. A chasm between them.
*”Im so sorry”what a hollow, meaningless phrase!* Alice seethed. *How do you live when the worlds stopped?*
Relatives muttered about suing, blaming the doctors. But Alice, drowning in grief, wanted none of it. Moving, speakingunbearable effort. She resolved to return to work after New Years. Staying home, surrounded by untouched baby things, was unbearable.
They spent Christmas at her parents snowy village. The silence was deafening. On Christmas Eve, they heated the wooden saunato wash away the hospitals stain. The men went first. Alice joined her mother late, wrapped in an old robe.
The sauna smelled of birch and dry heat. Her mother, flushed, smiled. “Tonights for divination. We used to gaze into mirrors, waiting for a future husbands face.”
Alice, drowsy, shook her head. “Not for me.”
Alone later, she lay on the warm bench. The quiet hummed. She drifted off.
In the dream, she was home. Sunlight filled the nursery. The cribwhite, carvedstirred. Inside, her daughter lay, alive, smiling.
“Mummy,” the baby said, clear as crystal. “Dont cry. Youll be happy. Youll have a daughter. Name her Emily. Ill always be with you.”
Alice woke, gasping, tears hot on her cheeks. The weight on her chest had liftedjust a little.
—
Time healed, slowly. Alice packed away the baby things, keeping only a tiny pink rattle. Work, routine, familiarity pulled her back. She laughed again, savoured coffee, let James hold her.
Doctors warned: no pregnancy for two years. But fate had other plans. She fell pregnant eighteen months later.
A severe infection made antibiotics necessary. Standing at the sink, pill in hand, something *stopped* her. A voiceher daughtersshouted in her mind: *”DONT YOU DARE!”*
She refused the abortion, despite the risks, the pressure. Ultrasounds, tests, warningsshe endured them all. Even her family called her reckless. Only James stood by her.
Two weeks before birth, she was hospitalised. A new roommate introduced herself: “Im Emily.”
Alice froze. *That name.*
“Do you know what it means?” she asked, trembling.
Emily grinned. “Mum always said it means *reborn.* Like a second chance.”
Reborn. Alices spoon clattered to the floor.
The next day, she gave birthquick, easy. A healthy girl. Strong lungs. Her Emily.
They left in March. The sun, bold and
