Every life begins with a story. Mine began with a warning nobody understood.
The first man to hold me after my birth looked as though he had just witnessed a miracle he wished he could undo.
His name was Dr. Wilson.
According to my mother, he was an excellent physician: steady hands, a gentle voice, and the patience to survive even the most unreasonable patients. But when he looked at me, his smile faltered.
"Watch this child carefully," he told my mother. "I believe she will become someone extraordinary."
A lovely thing to say about a baby, isn't it?
It would have been lovelier if he hadn't looked so terribly sorry for me.
My name is Nyx Cheng. You could say I arrived in the world making trouble, although I strongly object to that description. I was an infant. I couldn't even hold my own head up. Surely there were limits to what people could blame me for.
Unfortunately, my mother disagrees.
What follows is the story my parents told me over the years, pieced together with details neither of them understood at the time. Some moments would remain a mystery for much longer.
And all of it began on a day when my father was exactly where he shouldn't have been.
SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
"Mrs. Cheng, I need you to push again."
Alexa Cheng gripped the bed rail with both hands. Her long dark hair, usually arranged with almost irritating perfection, clung damply to her temples. Perspiration ran down her neck. The pain had stripped every trace of composure from her lovely face.
"I am pushing!" she gasped.
"I know. You're doing well."
"Then why," she demanded between breaths, "is everybody still telling me to push?"
The nurse on her left tried to hide a smile.
Dr. Wilson didn't smile. His attention moved between my mother and the instruments beside her. The labour had lasted longer than anyone expected, and both mother and child were under strain. He spoke calmly, but the urgency in the room was unmistakable.
"Alexa, look at me," he said. "We're almost there. One more effort, and I need it to be your strongest."
My mother shut her eyes. "Where is Murphy?"
No one answered.
"Oh, that man." She pulled in a shaky breath. "When I get my hands on him—"
Another contraction interrupted the threat.
The nurse leaned close. "Squeeze my hand if you need to."
That was a generous offer. A foolish one, perhaps, but generous.
My mother squeezed.
The nurse's smile disappeared.
"Now, Mrs. Cheng," Dr. Wilson said.
Alexa screamed, pushed, and gave the whole room a reason to stop breathing.
Then I cried.
A sharp, offended sound filled the delivery room.
The nurse laughed in relief. "There she is!"
Dr. Wilson caught me carefully, checked that I was breathing, and passed me to the team for the immediate newborn examination. My mother fell back against the pillow, too exhausted even to turn her head.
"Doctor?" she whispered.
"I'm here."
"My child..."
"Your baby is alive, Mrs. Cheng."
He paused, and his face softened. "You have a daughter."
For a moment, my mother only stared at him. Then tears slid from the corners of her eyes.
"A girl?"
"A beautiful girl."
She laughed and cried at once. "My daughter."
I was her first child, the one she'd spent months imagining. She had pictured my face, chosen little clothes, and argued with my father over names. There had been moments during the pregnancy when she pressed a hand against her stomach and wondered what sort of person I would become.
Now she had an answer to one question, at least.
I was loud.
When the nurse finally placed me in her arms, my mother examined my tiny face with the seriousness of someone inspecting a priceless treasure.
"You caused all that trouble?" she murmured.
I blinked.
"And now you want to look innocent?"
I opened my mouth and wailed.
"Ah. So you have something to say about it."
Dr. Wilson stood nearby, writing in my medical record. His pen stopped moving.
My mother noticed him looking at me.
"Doctor? Is she all right?"
"Yes."
"You sound uncertain."
He drew closer. "She's doing well. You both need rest."
But he didn't leave. He looked down at me again, his brows pulling together as if he were trying to remember something he'd lost.
"This child..." he began.
"What about her?"
The doctor seemed to reconsider his words.
"Keep a keen eye on her as she grows, Mrs. Cheng. I have a feeling she'll become a great person."
A smile touched his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"Of course," he said.
Then he turned away with an expression my mother would remember years later, long after the words themselves had faded.
Not happiness.
Pity.
Several kilometres away, Murphy Cheng was explaining to a roomful of executives why the company's latest proposal needed revisions.
My father looked every inch the successful CEO: tall, broad-shouldered, dark suit immaculate, tie straight, and an expensive watch peeking from his cuff. He had the unnerving habit of asking simple questions that made well-prepared men forget their own presentations.
"Those numbers look impressive," he told the finance director. "Now show me the assumptions behind them."
The director cleared his throat. A slide changed. Someone quietly shifted in a chair.
Murphy listened, one elbow resting on the table. He had postponed this meeting twice already. Today, he had promised his partners he would stay until every major point was settled.
His telephone buzzed beside his folder.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
"Continue."
The telephone vibrated a third time.
My father frowned. The number was unfamiliar. For reasons he could never explain, he answered.
"Hello? Murphy Cheng speaking."
"Good afternoon. Is this Mr. Cheng?" asked a woman.
"Yes. Who is calling?"
"This is Ms. Morris. Your wife has been admitted to Seoul National University Hospital. She's in labour."
Murphy rose so abruptly his chair rolled backward.
"She's WHAT?"
Every head turned.
"Sir, please come as soon as possible."
"Is Alexa all right? What about the baby?"
"The medical team is with her, Mr. Cheng."
"I'm coming. Tell her I'm coming."
He ended the call, snatched up his jacket, and looked around the room. No one dared speak.
"Gentlemen, we're finished for today."
"But, sir," the finance director began, "the agreement—"
"My wife is giving birth."
A stunned pause followed. Then half the room stood, offering congratulations at once.
Murphy was already at the door.
"Lin Hoa!"
His assistant, a young man with neatly parted hair and an anxious expression, sprang from his desk outside the conference room.
"Y-y-yes, sir?"
"Car keys. Quickly!"
"S-s-sir, w-which—"
"My car, Lin Hoa!"
"B-but which one?"
My father stopped at the key cabinet, grabbed a set, and hurried toward the lifts.
Lin Hoa stared after him.
"Sir, th-those are for the—"
The lift doors closed.
"...other car," he finished to an empty corridor.
By the time Murphy reached the parking area, he'd discovered his mistake. He returned for the correct keys, breathing hard, his perfect tie now hanging crookedly. He could manage a company with hundreds of employees, yet in that moment he could barely manage a key ring.
He called Alexa.
No answer.
He called again.
Still nothing.
Driving toward the hospital, he imagined the worst each time traffic slowed. ***
While Murphy fought his way through Seoul traffic, my mother was recovering in a quiet hospital room.
After a nurse had settled us, Alexa lay propped against the pillows, watching me sleep in the cot beside her. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and fresh linen. Afternoon light filtered through the curtains.
"You know," she told me, "your father is going to make a very dramatic entrance."
I slept through this accusation.
"He'll rush in, apologize, and try to charm me. Don't be fooled. He's been practising that smile for years."
A nurse appeared at the doorway with a form requiring confirmation.
"Mrs. Cheng? Could I speak with you for a moment?"
Alexa glanced at me. "She's finally asleep."
"It will only take a few seconds."
My mother rose carefully, adjusted my blanket, and kissed my forehead.
"Don't go anywhere, sweetheart."
I had no intention of doing so. My legs were scarcely fit for the journey across the cot.
She stepped just outside the room.
The sunlight dimmed.
At first it was no more than the sort of change caused by a cloud crossing the sun. Then the overhead light fluttered once. The curtain lifted from the windowsill, though the window was closed.
A cold current moved across the floor.
The clock above the door ticked.
And stopped.
Something dark gathered beside the wall opposite my cot. It was too thin to be a person, too deliberate to be a shadow cast by passing light. It shifted, taking on the suggestion of shoulders, a head, and an arm that seemed to reach without ever quite forming a hand.
Here I must confess something. I don't remember this. I was a newborn, not a witness capable of giving a statement. My mother only knew what happened when she came back: the cold room, the flickering light, and the sound of me screaming.
The rest remained unspoken for years.
Whatever the shape was, it moved toward the cot.
My little fingers reached up. Perhaps I mistook the movement for something friendly. Perhaps I was merely being a baby.
The figure bent nearer.
Then my cry split the quiet.
Alexa heard it from the corridor.
"Nyx?"
She rushed inside before the nurse could answer.
The curtains dropped. The clock resumed ticking. The room brightened.
My mother crossed to the cot and lifted me against her chest.
"I'm here, darling. I'm here."
My cries were so fierce that she could barely hear herself. She checked my face, my blanket, the cot, looking for anything that might have hurt me.
Nothing.
She rocked me until I quietened.
Only then did she notice how cold the room felt.
"Did someone open the window?" she asked the nurse, who had followed her inside.
The nurse checked it. "It's locked, Mrs. Cheng."
Alexa glanced toward the ceiling. The light shone steadily now.
"Maybe the air conditioning," the nurse offered.
"Perhaps."
My mother didn't entirely believe her, but exhaustion left little room for another worry. She sat down and held me close, determined not to put me in the cot again for a while.
If she'd looked at the clock, she might have noticed that its second hand was no longer in time with the one on her bedside monitor.
She didn't look.
Murphy arrived with his tie undone, his hair out of place, and his briefcase still in one hand.
"Nurse! My wife—Alexa Cheng. Where is she?"
The receptionist took one look at his face and spoke gently. "Mr. Cheng?"
"Yes."
"Your wife has delivered. She's recovering."
He gripped the edge of the counter. "And the baby?"
"A girl, sir."
"And they're both all right?"
"As far as I understand, yes. The team will update you."
Murphy lowered his head. "Thank God."
The receptionist gave him directions, and he hurried toward the recovery rooms. He slowed only when he found the correct door. For a moment, his hand hovered over the handle.
What if Alexa was angry?
Of course she was angry.
What if she was hurt?
What if she didn't forgive him for missing their daughter's arrival?
He opened the door.
Alexa sat against the pillows with me tucked into the crook of her arm. Her face was tired, her hair loose, but when she looked up, Murphy forgot every thought he'd rehearsed on the way there.
"Alexa."
She lifted an eyebrow. "Oh. So you remember where we live?"
He laughed once, helplessly. "I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"Very."
"How very?"
"Enough to apologize for the next twenty years if necessary."
"That might be a start."
She opened her free arm. He crossed the room to embrace her.
Then she pinched him.
"Ow!" Murphy jumped back. "What was that for?"
"You weren't here."
"I know."
"I was in labour, Murphy."
"I know, darling."
"And you were in a meeting."
He tried the expression that usually persuaded her to forgive him. It failed spectacularly.
"I'd postponed it twice. The partners had travelled. I truly thought we had more time."
"So did I," Alexa said. "The baby had other ideas."
He sat beside her. "I should have been here."
She studied his face. Whatever teasing answer she'd prepared faded when she saw the fear still in his eyes.
"You're here now."
He touched her cheek. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For her. For getting through it."
Alexa blinked away tears and nodded toward the blanket. "Come and meet your daughter before she starts charging you for late arrival."
Murphy looked down at me.
"She is beautiful."
"Naturally," my mother said.
"She looks like you."
"An excellent start."
"But perhaps she has my nose."
"Murphy Cheng, she's been alive for a few hours. Stop dividing up her face."
He grinned. "May I hold her?"
"Support her head."
"I know."
"Not like that."
"Alexa, I haven't even touched her."
"I'm preparing you."
My father carefully took me in his arms. His large hands looked awkward beneath my tiny body. "Hello, princess," he whispered. "I'm your father. The irresponsible one, apparently."
Alexa gave him a warning look.
"I've been told," he continued to me, "that your mother is in charge of this family. I advise you to stay on her good side."
My fingers closed around one of his.
Murphy stared.
"Alexa."
"What?"
"She's holding my finger."
"I can see."
"She knows me."
"Or she thinks you're a toy."
He scarcely heard her. His expression had gone soft in a way my mother had never seen during any business meeting.
"I'll take care of you," he whispered to me. "Both of you. I promise."
It was an ordinary father's promise, made without ceremony or witnesses. My mother smiled as she heard it.
Neither of them imagined how heavily those words might weigh someday.
A little later, Murphy put me back into Alexa's arms and checked his watch.
"When did the doctor say you could go home?"
"Maybe tomorrow. They want to observe us a little longer."
"Good. I'll sort things out and come back."
"Okay, honey."
He stopped at the doorway.
Slowly, he turned.
"Honey?"
Alexa looked up innocently. "Yes?"
"Since when do you call me honey?"
"Since I decided you deserved a little sweetness."
Murphy leaned against the doorframe, delighted. "I like it. Say it again."
"No."
"Please?"
"Go and do whatever you were going to do."
"Just once."
She narrowed her eyes. "Silly boy."
Murphy's grin widened. "Oh, that's even better."
Alexa couldn't decide whether to laugh or throw a pillow at him. Instead, she made a quiet sound and reached for the side of her neck.
"Ouch."
Murphy straightened. "What's wrong?"
"My neck. I think I've strained something."
"Do you need the doctor?"
"Perhaps."
"I'll get him."
He hurried out before she could say another word.
Alexa waited until his footsteps faded. Then she bent over me and laughed, careful not to wake me.
"Your father's clever," she whispered, "but sometimes he's far too easy."
She kissed my cheek. "We'll have fun with him, won't we?"
From the corridor came Murphy's voice, urgently calling for a doctor.
My mother winced. "Oh dear. Perhaps I overdid it."
Dr. Wilson was reviewing the delivery notes at the nurses' station when Murphy found him.
"Doctor! My wife says her neck is hurting."
Wilson looked up. "Is she in severe pain?"
"I'm not sure. She was holding it like this." Murphy demonstrated so dramatically that a passing nurse turned to look.
"I'll examine her," the doctor said, rising.
As they approached the recovery room, Wilson glanced down at the notes in his hand. There was nothing unusual written there now. A difficult labour. A live birth. Mother and daughter stable.
He should have felt relieved.
Instead, the image of that newborn's face returned to him, along with an inexplicable sensation he'd felt in the delivery room. He could not name it. He didn't dare try.
The corridor light blinked once.
Wilson stopped.
"Doctor?" Murphy called.
"Coming."
Inside, Alexa had arranged her face into the picture of innocence. Murphy entered first, full of concern. My mother glanced at me, then at my father, and bit her lip to keep from laughing.
It was such a normal scene: two exhausted new parents, one worried doctor, and a baby who had finally settled into sleep.
For the moment, the world had given us something beautiful.
My mother had survived. My father had arrived. And I was home, at least in their arms.
Later, my parents would argue affectionately over the details of that day. Who cried first. Whether Murphy had really lost his keys. How much pain my mother's pinch had caused. Each telling ended in laughter.
But there was one part they could never explain.
The room had been empty when my mother stepped outside.
The window had been locked.
And I had begun screaming before anyone came through the door.
My father was not the first visitor to come looking for me.
He was only the first one my mother could see.
END OF CHAPTER 1