Nurse Davies would tell the story, years later, in the hushed, confessional tones of the 3 AM cafeteria. "It wasn't quiet," she'd say, her hands unsteady around a Styrofoam cup. "It was... empty. Like the world had been hollowed out. I thought I was dead. I thought we'd all died."
The darkness held. One second. Two. A lifetime. The pressure was immense, a physical weight that squeezed the air from her lungs. She was aware of Dr. Peters, a paralyzed shape of authority beside her. She was aware of Elara, a tragic, still form on the table.
In the total, crushing black, a single, new sensation rolled through the room. It wasn't a sound. It was a pulse, deep and ancient, like a giant bell struck miles away.
The lights buzzed, sputtered, and snapped back on, flickering from a sickly yellow to their harsh, sterile white.
And sound came rushing back in a painful, deafening torrent. The shriek of the wind. The hammering of the rain. The long, flat beeeeeep of the heart monitor. Dr. Peters stumbled back, gasping, as if he'd been punched. The frozen IV droplet fell.
And beneath it all, a new sound.
A single, healthy, furious wail.
It was the most terrifyingly normal sound Davies had ever heard.
"He's... he's out," Dr. Peters stammered, his professionalism a tattered rag he was pulling around himself. He moved on pure, shaking instinct, his hands reaching for the child. "The baby is out."
But as he worked, his hands slick, Davies looked at Elara. The woman's chest was still. The long, unbroken line on the monitor was a death sentence.
"Doctor..." she whispered, her voice cracking. "Doctor, she's gone."