The baby did not cry.
That was the first thing the doctor noticed.
He had expected it, had even braced for it, once the child was warm, fed, and no longer numb from the cold. Newborns cried. It was how they announced themselves to the world, how they demanded to be seen and heard.
But the boy lay quietly in the bassinet the doctor had retrieved from storage, eyes open, unmoving.
The room was clean and bright in the early morning light. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains of the examination room at the back of the apartment, illuminating the familiar shapes of instruments and shelves. Everything was where it should be. Everything made sense.
The child did not.
The doctor washed his hands slowly, deliberately, the way he always did before an examination. He dried them just as carefully, folding the towel twice before setting it aside. Routine was a form of armor. It kept emotion from contaminating observation.
He approached the bassinet.
The baby lay on his back, swaddled neatly, chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His eyes were open, dark and unfocused, staring upward at nothing in particular. The doctor moved into the child's field of view, casting a shadow across his face.
No reaction.
He shifted again, slower this time, watching closely for any sign of tracking, of recognition. Still nothing. The baby's gaze did not follow. It did not flinch.
The doctor noted this without comment.
He reached for a small light and passed it gently across the child's eyes, careful not to startle him. The pupils did not constrict. There was no blink, no recoil.
He tried again.
Nothing.
The doctor straightened, a familiar tightness settling between his shoulders. He did not allow himself to name the thought yet. Naming things too early had a way of hardening them into truths.
He continued.
A soft bell next, rung once, then twice, near the baby's ear. It was not loud. Just enough to provoke a response in a healthy infant.
The baby did not stir.
The doctor changed angles, distance, and intensity. He clapped once, sharply, then immediately regretted it. The sound echoed briefly in the small room before fading.
The baby's breathing remained unchanged.
There was no startle reflex. No flinch. No cry.
The doctor lowered his hands.
For several seconds, he stood perfectly still, listening, not to the room, but to himself. He felt the familiar urge to hurry, to do something, to fix. He resisted it.
Observation first.
He checked reflexes next. Touch elicited responses, slow, faint movements of fingers and toes. The baby responded to pressure, to warmth. He rooted when fed, latched clumsily but effectively. His body, at least, seemed willing to participate in the world.
It was the world that did not reach him.
The doctor documented everything in neat, careful handwriting. No wasted words. No speculation. Just facts.
Possible congenital blindness. Possible congenital deafness. Further evaluation required.
The phrase further evaluation hung in the air, meaningless and heavy.
He sat back on the stool and looked at the child again, really looked this time. The baby's face was calm, almost serene. There was no distress there, no confusion, only a kind of profound stillness.
The doctor felt something shift in his chest.
He had seen devastation before. Trauma announced itself loudly: broken bones, bleeding wounds, screams that filled rooms and demanded immediate action.
This was quieter.
This was absence.
He reached out and placed two fingers gently against the baby's palm. The tiny hand closed around them with surprising strength.
Alive, the doctor thought again.
And then, unbidden: Alone.
He pulled his hand away and stood, pacing once across the room before stopping himself. He did not pace during examinations. Pacing implied uncertainty, and uncertainty had no place here.
He returned to the bassinet and adjusted the blanket instead.
There were tests he could order. Specialists he could consult. Facilities better equipped than his small apartment clinic. All of it would take time. All of it would leave a trail.
He thought of paperwork. Of questions. Of eyes that lingered too long.
He thought of how the baby had been left, carefully, quietly, as though whoever had done it already knew.
The doctor exhaled slowly.
"No rushing," he said aloud, the words grounding him. "Not yet."
The baby made a small sound then, not a cry, but a soft exhale, lips parting slightly. The sound was reflexive, unshaped by intention.
The doctor froze.
He leaned in, speaking softly, his voice low and even. "Can you hear me?"
There was no response.
He did not repeat the question.
Instead, he sat down beside the bassinet and allowed the silence to stretch. He watched the child's chest rise and fall. He listened to the distant sounds of the city bleeding through the walls, traffic, voices, life continuing at its relentless pace.
None of it reached the boy.
A memory surfaced, unwanted but persistent: his wife standing in a pediatric ward years ago, watching a mother cradle her newborn. The way her hand had lingered on the glass. The way she had said nothing at all.
He pushed the thought aside.
Emotion would not help the child. Only patience would.
The doctor wrote one final line in the file, hesitating briefly before doing so.
Sensory deprivation suspected. Etiology unknown.
Unknown.
He closed the folder and set it aside.
The baby shifted slightly, brow furrowing as if disturbed by something the doctor could not perceive. Instinctively, he reached out and rested a hand against the child's chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his palm.
"I don't know what this means yet," he said quietly, more to himself than to the baby. "And I won't pretend that I do."
The baby's breathing steadied again.
The doctor sat there for a long time after that, hand resting lightly against the child, the morning light climbing higher along the walls. He did not plan. He did not decide.
He observed.
Because answers, when they came too quickly, often did more harm than good.
And because the most troubling question had not yet been asked:
If the boy could not see the world and could not hear it how was the world meant to reach him at all?