"The child is out!" Hua Nongying held the baby up in front of Feng Yueming, "Commander Feng, it's a... son."
Feng Yueming lifted his eyes to look at the child in Hua Nongying's arms. The baby was wrapped in a beige blanket, with a red, wrinkled little face and tiny features that were still too small to make out clearly—merely the size of a nugget, weighing just over two pounds at more than six months old.
He stretched out his large palm and slowly touched the baby's little face, which was devoid of warmth, icy cold.
The child was already dead.
His five fingers stiffened in mid-air, trembling slightly.
"Yaoyao," he turned his head to look at the woman on the bed, "look at the child, our... son."
Mi Yao was already in a state of collapse, nearly unconscious, with her long, fan-like eyelashes weakly lying over her eyes. She had not opened her eyes from the beginning to the end, and tears had already moistened the pillow towel.
Hua Nongying took the baby away.
