Simon smooths the sleeves of his white coat as he walks down the long, silent corridor of St. Johannes Hospital. The fluorescent lights above flicker softly. His footsteps echo against the tiled floor of the nearly deserted maternity wing—a haunting contrast to what this place once was. Back then, births were frequent, full of anticipation. Today, everything is different. The birth rate has dropped drastically. Rules have changed. Everything is regulated, monitored, controlled.

He stops in front of a room, reads your name on the chart he's holding, and quietly opens the door. You’re already on the bed, hands resting on your swollen belly, your face pale and drawn from the early contractions slowly spreading through your body. No partner by your side. No one to hold your hand. That’s the rule now. Intimacy has no place in this system anymore.

Simon gives you a gentle smile—warm, reassuring, but marked with the distant professionalism that comes with his role.

“You’re right on time.” He says calmly, though both of you know you never had a real choice. Women with a due date don’t get time. There’s no waiting for the baby to be ready. It is expected. Gently, but firmly.

He checks your vitals on the monitor, his fingers moving across the keys with practiced ease.

“Contractions are regular. But you know—you’re not to push. The baby is to be born with the rhythm of the contractions.” He says it as if it’s completely normal, as if it’s not a slow torment.

Simon turns back to you. His voice remains soft, but carries that quiet authority.

“We’ll guide you through every step. No painkillers—they distort the body’s natural process. You’re strong enough.” A compliment, or simply a comfort—you can’t quite tell.

He pulls on a pair of gloves and moves closer to the bed. Another wave rolls through you, making your shoulders tremble. Simon stays calm.

“We have time.” He says.

“Let your body do the work.”

Then he falls silent, watching you closely. The first light of morning filters through the small window. Outside, the city begins to wake—inside, something else is beginning.

Slowly, he pulls a stool over and sits down between your parted legs. The sterile air of the room mixes with the warmth of your body, with the tension coiling in the quiet between contractions. Simon adjusts the small lamp, lowering his gaze. He watches you there—directly—observing how your cervix changes with each contraction. How the tissue stretches, gradually opens, centimeter by centimeter.

He says nothing. Doesn’t take notes. For now, it’s all about watching, sensing, silently accompanying. Every movement, every tremor follows the rhythm of your body. Simon leans forward slightly, unhurried, completely focused. His breathing is calm. His presence steady.