A woman gave birth in a hospital room in prison

The woman flinched but made no sound. Her eyes closed for a moment, as if she were waiting for the midwife’s reaction. The nurse, pale, stood frozen in the doorway.

— What… what is happening? — she stammered.

The midwife took a step back. Her hands trembled. She had never seen anything like this in all her years of work. On the woman’s body, just beneath the stretched skin of pregnancy, strange marks were visible: symbols seemingly burned from within, signs reminiscent of crooked crosses and ancient, incomprehensible letters. They moved with the heartbeat of the child.

— It’s not possible, the midwife whispered, making the sign of the cross. Such a thing does not come from nature…

In Romania, the old women would have said it was “the mark of the unclean.” In the villages of Oltenia or Moldova, a midwife would have run for basil, incense, and holy water, calling for a priest before anything else. In the prison hospital, however, there was only silence, and beyond the walls, the metal chains and frozen bars offered no hope of escape.

The pregnant woman opened her eyes. Her gaze was no longer that of a resigned inmate, but of someone carrying a terrible secret. Her lips moved barely visibly:

— It’s not mine…

The nurse took a step back, feeling her legs weaken.

— What do you mean? — the midwife asked, her voice hoarse.

— The child… is not mine, the inmate whispered. I am just the vessel…

At that moment, a strong contraction made her scream. Her cry did not resemble that of a woman in labor, but rather the howl of a wounded beast. The midwife approached again, battling her fear. It was her job; she had to bring life into the world, not to judge. But when she placed her hands on the belly again, she felt something that froze her blood: the child was not moving like a baby, but like a being that struck and clawed from within.

In the corridor, the sound of hurried footsteps. The prison priest, a tall man with a white beard and bright eyes, entered holding a cross and a censer.

— Lord, have mercy, he uttered, as the incense smoke rose slowly.

The inmate screamed again, but this time her voice seemed doubled by another, deep and dark, that was not of this world.

The midwife burst into tears. Memories of her grandmother’s childhood stories came to mind, about women who gave birth to “soulless” children and how the village would call the priest to read the Psalter day and night.

The birth was imminent. In the room, the priest’s prayers intertwined with the woman’s screams and the fear of those present. Then, suddenly, silence fell over everyone.

A wail was heard. Not a normal one, but a sharp cry, like that of a night bird. The priest raised the cross higher, the midwife gathered the child in her arms, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.

In her arms was not an ordinary child. He had wide, dark eyes, and on his smooth skin were the same symbols that had appeared on his mother’s body. However, when the midwife held him to her chest, the child calmed down.

The priest uttered a powerful prayer, and unexpectedly, the marks faded until the little one’s skin became clean. The woman, exhausted, closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

— He is a child of God, the priest said, wiping his forehead. No sign of evil can prevail if there is faith.

The midwife sighed deeply. She knew that this day would never be forgotten. In a prison where everything was devoid of hope, a story had been born that would be whispered for years to come, as a reminder of the struggle between darkness and light.

And, for the first time in a long time, someone felt that the cold walls were no longer just those of a prison, but witnesses to a miracle.