That was the moment Camila understood something terrible had happened.
She tried to sit up.
• “Why isn’t he crying?”
No one answered immediately.
The doctor looked toward one of the nurses instead.
A glance.
Brief.
Heavy.
And Camila felt the world begin to collapse beneath her.
Alejandro stepped forward sharply.
• “Talk to me.”
The doctor inhaled carefully.
The kind of breath professionals take before delivering irreversible news.
• “We’re very sorry…”
Camila let out a broken sound that barely resembled a human voice.
Alejandro froze.
Completely froze.
Because grief often arrives that way—not as an explosion, but as paralysis.
The nurse quietly disconnected one of the monitors.
Someone lowered their gaze.
Someone else began organizing instruments with unnatural urgency.
The room had already started behaving as if the baby no longer belonged to the living.
And near the back wall, almost invisible beside a cart of folded linens, Mariana López watched everything happen.
Mariana worked nights cleaning surgical floors.
