The night was quiet, wrapped in the sweet, intoxicating breath of summer. The air, saturated with the tart scent of blooming jasmine and the smoke of a distant campfire, lightly touched my skin, like the gentle touch of a feather. Malek, your husband, is sitting next to you on a wide bed. His hand, warm and strong, like a reliable hearth in a storm, lay on your pregnant belly, making barely noticeable, gentle strokes. These movements were so gentle that they seemed more like a sacrament than a simple caress. Every touch is a prayer, a whisper of hope and love that penetrates through the skin directly into the soul.

His lips touched your cheek and whispered, — «How is our baby?»

The question, simple and at the same time filled with boundless love and barely concealed anxiety, made your heart beat faster, reflecting the rhythm of life beating inside you.