A handmade wooden crib stood near the window. Inside it, a baby no older than a few months twisted and cried, his tiny fists clenched, his face blotchy and soaked with tears. Across the room, slouched in a leather chair with his back turned to the crib, sat a man wearing oversized headphones. A laptop glowed on his knees as his fingers moved rapidly across the keys. He did not turn. He did not react. It was as if the child did not exist.
Sofia stood frozen, counting her breaths, disbelief tightening her throat. Then something inside her gave way.
She crossed the room and lifted the baby from the crib. His body was warm but trembling. His diaper was soaked and cold, his clothes stiff with dried milk. On the nightstand sat a bottle filled with sour liquid. Sofia swallowed hard and pressed the baby against her chest, rocking gently as she whispered nonsense sounds meant only to soothe.
The man finally noticed movement. He tore the headphones from his ears and spun around, eyes sunken and red rimmed, shock and irritation flickering across his face before settling into something like shame.
“What are you doing,” he demanded, though his voice cracked under the words.