IAN O'DOWD
The maternity ward always smelled like someone had tried to scrub grief out of the air.
Antiseptic—sharp enough to sting the inside of the nose—layered over warm plastic and the faint copper bite of blood that never truly left, no matter how many times the floors were mopped. The ventilation pushed recycled air through ceiling vents with a soft, constant sigh, as if the building itself was practicing calm.
Mara had learned not to trust that sound.
She walked the corridor on quiet soles, her badge tapping lightly against her sternum with each step. Behind the glass of the nurses’ station, monitors blinked steady green and blue, lines rising and falling in clean rhythms that pretended life was simple.
In her pocket, her fingers found the familiar crease of a folded paper she never unfolded anymore.
Not now. Not here. Never under these lights.
She paused outside Room 6B when the intercom chimed—two short tones, then a voice clipped with urgency softened into practiced reassurance.
“Delivery complete. Neonatal team requested.”