The morning began with a strange silence. Usually, the baby would wake before sunrise, making soft little sounds and stretching his tiny fingers toward the warm air. But today he did not move much. His eyes were half open, dull instead of curious, and his breathing was shallow, as if every breath required effort.
At first, we thought he was simply tired. The night had been colder than usual, and perhaps he had not slept well. We wrapped him gently and waited. Minutes passed. Then an hour. His body felt warmer than normal, yet his hands were cold. When he tried to cry, only a faint whimper escaped his lips.
We searched for obvious wounds — nothing. No swelling, no injury, no sign of a fall. Still, his strength faded. He refused milk, turning his head weakly as if even swallowing was too difficult. The sight frightened everyone. A baby who once clung tightly now barely held on.
We tried comforting him, stroking his back and whispering softly, hoping our presence could replace whatever strength was leaving him. But his eyes drifted slowly, unfocused, and he trembled from time to time. The condition worsened through the afternoon. His breathing became uneven — sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow.
The hardest part was not knowing. Fever? Infection? Pain we could not see? Each guess brought more worry than answers. We wished he could tell us where it hurt.
As evening approached, we stayed close, refusing to leave him alone. Even in uncertainty, care was all we could offer — warmth, gentle touch, and hope. Sometimes love becomes helpless, standing quietly beside suffering, waiting for a sign that the tiny fighter inside the fragile body is still holding on.
