In the smallest corner of their tiny world, newborn twins Marry and Marrya sat side by side, barely bigger than two soft bundles of breath. Their bodies leaned forward eagerly, innocent eyes fixed on the gentle steam rising from the warm pumpkin in front of them. The air smelled sweet and comforting, and to them, it felt like hope.
Marry was the braver one. She lifted her little head higher, lips moving softly as if asking when it would be ready. Her tiny hands rested on her belly, which growled quietly. Marrya stayed closer, her body tucked in tight, eyes wide and shining. She didn’t cry. She just watched, trusting that food would come.
The steam curled slowly upward, warming their faces. For babies this small, warmth meant safety. It reminded them they were no longer cold, no longer hungry and forgotten. Their breathing slowed as they waited, completely focused, completely patient in their own newborn way.
Mom mashed the pumpkin carefully, blowing gently to cool it. Every movement caught the twins’ attention. Marry let out a small sound—half excitement, half plea. Marrya reached forward just a little, her fingers trembling with effort. They were so eager, yet so fragile.
When the first tiny taste touched Marry’s lips, her eyes fluttered. She swallowed slowly, then relaxed, as if her whole body sighed at once. Marrya followed, tasting carefully, her mouth opening shyly before accepting the warmth. The pumpkin filled their bellies with comfort, not just food.
After a few bites, both twins leaned back, their energy fading into calm. Their tiny chests rose and fell together. The steam faded, but the warmth stayed—inside and out.
In that quiet moment, Marry and Marrya weren’t just eating. They were learning trust. They were learning love. In their tiny world, a little steam pumpkin meant everything.
