Rue De Paris, Paris, France
The night was calm and peaceful. The sun had descended, and the moon hung high in the sky, illuminating the darkness of the Parisians' rooms. Yet the whole city still bustled, streets alive with lights, cars, bikes, cycles, and every kind of vehicle. People walked the footpaths, each with a different face, name, life, identity, and destination.
On the crowded Rue De Paris, traffic crawled, and horns blared out of sheer boredom.
Inside a white Renault Clio, a man of average features sat in the driver's seat. Boredom showed in his posture, but worry and anxiety filled his eyes as he kept glancing at the back seat through the rear-view mirror.
The man had red hair and black eyes that flicked nervously between the road and the mirror.
On the back seat sat a pregnant woman in a white gown and coat. She had black hair and brown eyes; nothing about her face or body stood out except the swollen belly that protruded clearly. Anyone could tell she was heavily pregnant and close to labour.
The man, Michel, tapped the steering wheel rapidly, convinced she might give birth any second.
The woman, Claire, noticed her husband's glances in the mirror. She smiled, rubbed her belly, and spoke in the sweet, soothing voice she had owned since childhood, the kind everyone loved to hear. As a girl, she had dreamed of being a singer; as an adult, she became a counsellor and therapist instead.
"Don't worry, Michel. Yes, the doctor said the baby is growing faster than expected, and there's a chance of early labour in the eighth month, but we're only in the first week of it. I've heard of plenty of women in the same situation who made it to the ninth month. You can relax."
Her voice washed over him like warm water. He stopped tapping, his shoulders loosened, and he focused on the traffic again.
Five minutes passed. The jam eased slightly, but progress was still slow. To kill the boredom, Claire spoke again in that gentle tone. "It's getting dull. Want to talk about something?"
Michel shrugged. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I want to talk about that old man."
Michel was quiet for a moment. "You mean the old man who gave us that 'magical' medicine?"
Michel and Claire had been married for eight years. They had everything a couple could want for a simple, happy life, everything except a child. They tried for years, visited dozens of doctors, and took every treatment and medicine available. Even IVF failed. They were drowning in worry and depression when, nine months ago, fate seemed to answer.
They had been strolling in a park and sat on a bench beside an old man whose thin body was covered in wrinkles. His white hair and eyes gleamed with the weight of a long, hard life.
A casual conversation turned into them pouring out their grief. The old man listened silently, then said he was an experienced apothecary and might have something that could help. He reached into his pocket and produced two pills, one red, one blue. "Take these and try again," he said. "If you think they're drugs, have a doctor test them. They'll tell you the pills are worthless, barely good as candy." Then he stood and left without another word.
Claire and Michel were torn. Desperate as they were, caution won at first. They took the pills to several doctors; all confirmed they were harmless placebos. That night, they swallowed them anyway.
A month later, Claire was pregnant. It was a miracle. Every doctor they saw afterward was stunned.
They tracked down the old man's address, intending to thank him with gifts. When they arrived at his neighbourhood, they learned he had died two days earlier, the very day Claire's pregnancy was confirmed.
Back in the present, Claire asked softly, "Don't you think it's strange he died the exact day I found out I was pregnant?"
She had never believed in fate or the supernatural, but the old man had shaken her.
Michel was silent for a few seconds, then answered in a heavy voice. "Maybe he traded his life for a new one to grow inside you. If that's true, we owe him even more gratitude. Either way, there's nothing we can do now. Better to leave the past behind and look to the future."
Claire opened her mouth, but no words came. Traffic finally began to move. Their car picked up speed.
Suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed through her womb. She screamed.
Michel whipped the wheel left, heading for the hospital.
Claire clutched her belly, eyes squeezed shut. Warm liquid ran between her legs. She knew water breaking was normal, but blood? Why blood?
She forced her eyes open, looked down, and froze.
A tiny blood-soaked hand had torn through the bottom of her womb and was opening and closing like a claw. Torn flesh and blood framed it.
She thought it was a nightmare born of months of anxiety, but the pain was too real. The hand pushed farther; more flesh ripped. Another scream of pure horror and agony tore from her throat.
Schlich! Schlich!
The hand kept forcing its way out, shredding muscle and skin. Blood and amniotic fluid poured, soaking her white gown crimson. Michel glanced back and saw the impossible. Panic seized him; he had never imagined anything like this. The sight of his child ripping its mother apart from the inside turned his stomach.
He lost control. The car slammed into a truck beside them, rolled several times violently, and came to rest upside-down on the footpath. Pedestrians scattered.
Inside, Claire and Michel were drenched in blood.
Claire lay on her right side, eyes dull, consciousness slipping. The baby kept pushing, tearing her open further. The seat beneath her was slick with blood and fluid. With the last of her strength, she looked toward Michel.
He was motionless, covered in wounds. A metal rod had pierced his skull. He was dead.
Her husband of eight years, the man she had loved, fought with, dreamed with, sacrificed for, the father of her child, was dead in seconds.
"MICHEL! Michel—no, no, NO! Please come back! Don't leave me! I can't do anything without you! Please... why is this happening? What did we do to deserve this?!"
Tears streamed down her face. She couldn't even scream for help. Physical, mental, and emotional agony crushed her. The baby had torn half her womb open and was forcing its head through.
If it had been born normally, she would have loved it with all her heart. Now she felt only hatred, but she was too weak even to frown. She could only cry.
Her vision darkened. On the edge of death, her life flashed before her.
"Mama... Papa... I love you both. Michel, wait—I'm coming..."
Claire, born in 1995, was kind, sweet, and once dreamed of singing. A professional therapist and counsellor died on the night of 22 March 2023.
The baby finally ripped free, falling into the wreckage covered in blood and fluid. Red hair, black eyes.
"So, I have been reborn," the newborn said in a cold, adult voice.
He pushed himself up with tiny hands and sat. He looked at the mangled corpses of Claire and Michel without a flicker of emotion.
He raised a hand. Red liquid laced with crimson particles flowed from his skin, coalesced on his right arm, and formed a perfect pair of scissors. With practiced precision, he cut his own umbilical cord. The scissors dissolved back into liquid and vanished into his body.
He looked at the bodies again and smiled, voice deep and mature.
"Thank you both very much. If you hadn't been desperate and foolish enough to take the pills I gave you, I wouldn't have found such perfect vessels. One more day, and my own life would have ended. Pity it cost you yours, but don't worry—I'll let your souls go to whatever heaven you believe in. Haha."
He turned to Claire's corpse, placed a hand on the ruined womb still pouring blood and fluid. Golden-yellow liquid with orange particles flowed from his palm into the wound. Torn muscle knitted itself together; blood reversed its flow and returned to her veins; skin sealed without a scar. In moments, her belly was flat and flawless again, as if she had never been pregnant.
He drew out the remaining amniotic fluid and severed cord, smeared some on her thighs and some on himself, then lay beside her, took a deep breath, and opened his mouth.
"Waaaaaaa!!!"
The panicked crowd outside, who had already called police and ambulances, heard the cry. Officers rushed in, pulled the "newborn" from the wreckage, saw the dead parents, and focused on saving the crying baby.
No one questioned how the umbilical cord had been cleanly cut.