Later, when Nora and the baby were moved to recovery, Dr. Patel stood alone in the hallway staring at the birth certificate. The father’s name line was still blank, waiting.
He glanced toward the nursery window. Inside, the newborn slept peacefully, small chest rising and falling beneath the star-patterned blanket. A nurse hummed softly as she checked vitals, the tune oddly familiar—a song about hope his own mother used to sing in Gujarati.
When he returned to his office, he filled in the paperwork carefully. On the line for “Father,” he didn’t write a name. Instead, he drew a small star beside the baby’s name—a quiet symbol in a world that didn’t know how to record faith.
He filed the form and turned off the light, but as he reached the door, something stopped him.
The same blue blanket he’d seen earlier was draped over the chair—left behind, though he remembered Nora holding it when they wheeled her out.
He frowned, picked it up. The fabric was warm, impossibly warm, as if someone had just been there.
He folded it gently, laid it on the desk, and whispered, “She’s safe. You did good.”
And for just a second, the scent of cinnamon gum filled the room, then faded like it had never been there at all.
