Fade into mist. There is still that whispering, but no song. There is still that machine noise. Both are vaguely familiar.
He is alone with his baby son. They hug and play horsey. He runs a bath. Hops in with him. Washes him. Tosses bubbles to him. Laughs with him. Feeds him. Changes nappies. Gives him a bottle to stop him crying. Turns on his favourite music box. Puts him to bed...
There is still that whispering.
It’s okay to go now, Dad.
There is still that mechanical heartbeat.
Long pause.
Beeping.
Longer pause.
Beep.
Longer.
The sudden wrenching of the mist that is all he once felt and imagined.
A sharp cough that becomes a drawn-out sigh.
Its shockwave bundles the mist shreds into a blow that stuns with light.
A nod.
An exhalation of sense, like ocean through blowhole.
Someone else’s voice.
‘It’s a girl, Mrs Rua.’
Another voice. ‘Come.’
