Baby Bola lay stretched on the cool floor, his tiny chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
His eyes were half closed, heavy with exhaustion, yet still wet with tears that refused to dry.
All day his little body had fought hunger, fear, and the ache of being too small in a big world.
Now the fight was gone, replaced by a quiet surrender that broke every heart watching him.
His arms rested limp beside him, fingers barely curling.
Each breath sounded tired, as if even breathing required courage.
From time to time, a soft whimper escaped his lips, not loud enough to call for help, only enough to show he was still trying.
Bola’s belly felt empty, his strength drained, his warmth fading into the cold ground beneath him.
Memories he could not name weighed on him.
The absence of comfort felt louder than any scream.
He wanted to be held, to feel a heartbeat near his own, to hear a familiar voice promise safety.
But all he could do was lie there, too weak to cry, too tired to move.
Then footsteps approached.
A shadow fell gently over his small body.
Someone knelt beside him, hands careful and slow.
Warm palms lifted him from the floor, pressing him against a chest filled with heat and life.
Bola’s eyes fluttered open, meeting a face full of worry and love.
A soft sound escaped him, not pain this time, but relief.
His body relaxed as warmth returned, spreading through his limbs.
The shaking stopped.
The fear loosened its grip.
Cradled close, Bola finally rested.
His breathing deepened, steadier now.
The world no longer felt so heavy.
In those arms, he was not pitiful or weak.
He was cherished, protected, and loved.
Hope quietly wrapped him, promising tomorrow would be gentler.
