Mrs. Johnson and Donald Johnson didn't dare speak to Samuel Johnson either. He seemed totally vacant, as if his entire being had been emptied, and the only person who could capture his attention was the one inside the delivery room.
He stood at the entrance of the delivery room, slowly smoking a cigarette. A thin veil of smoke enveloped his face, and a thick layer of ash had already accumulated on the floor.
It seemed as if light and shadow, and everything else, had receded at that moment, his focus solely on the person inside the delivery room.
The doors of the delivery room were tightly shut, no sound emanating from within. He felt his heart was soft—a disaster inside, and his heart would be crushed.
His hands trembled as they clutched the cigarette, still retaining the smell of blood. Sniffing that scent, he felt his temples throbbing violently, his heartbeat starting to race.
