A Baby Was Born Exactly at Midnight—Right as the Digital Clock in the Delivery Room Flickered from 11:59 PM to 12:00 AM with a Flash of Green Light

The baby arrived precisely at midnight, right at that awkward, witching hour when the digital clock in the delivery suite blinked from 23:59 to 00:00 in a sickly green. The doctor and midwife exchanged a glance, while the on-call paediatrician lunged for the immobile, blue-tinged little body and, ever the professional, swiftly placed him on the changing table and went at the suction. The baby wasnt breathing. The new mother, Elizabeth, merely turned her head a touch, watching the medical antics as if it had nothing to do with her.

Maybe hes dead? Hes not crying Thoughts churned through her mind, still foggy from the merciless pain only moments ago.

Finally, the newborn let out the faintest squeak. It was almost apologetic. But that tentative note swelled, next looping into a hearty wail that rang down the quiet corridors of St Marys Maternity Ward, echoing off the ancient walls. The doctor, midwife, and paediatrician stood around the newborn, silently peering at him with measured focus.

He was, you might say, a rather unusual child. His spine, reaching the level of his shoulder blades, curved in such a peculiar manner that it formed two almost symmetrical, elongated humps, cascading halfway down his chest.

How is this possible? the befuddled paediatrician kept muttering. Ive nevertruly, neverseen the like. It simply cant be Simply not on

When the doctor made his morning rounds and tried to explain the special qualities of Elizabeths brand-new son, she curled her pretty lips in distaste.

So hes hideous as well? What a delightful twist of fate. She tutted, shaking her head. No, thank you. Do whatever you want with him, but I dont want a freak. Frankly, I wasnt much for adopting a healthy one, and with this Oh, just pass me the paperwork. Ill sign the discharge.

And so, at the appropriate hour, Elizabeth sauntered out of hospital lighter, cooler, and, as far as she was concerned, infinitely unburdened, while her son stayed behind, wholly oblivious to having just been abandoned by the only person who really ought to have loved him.

At Rosewood Childrens Home, they named him Oliver. Simply Olivernothing more, nothing less. The nursery matrons dressed him in roomy, ill-fitting shirts to distract from his noticeable difference.

Yet, even if hed been carved from marble and as perfect as a statue, hed still have stood apart from the usual crowd: all that squealing, fighting, grabbing, and eternal squabbling for some battered toy car. There was a seriousness in Olivers blue eyes quite at odds with toddlerish chaos, and long, dark lashes shadowed them.

Often, staring out the window, hed listen intently to something within, straining with all his might to understand, to catch something that always seemed to float away on the edge of hearing.

One day, in typical Home chaos, a tottering column of two-year-oldsmarching roughly in pairs, shoes on wrong feet and knees scuffedwas being herded to some event when Oliver heard IT. Music slipped through the hastily shut door of the headmistresss office. It was nothing like the cheery jingles they learned to clap along to, or the left, right, stand up straight! of their musical drills. This music was like the wind. Warm, gentle, sweeping you up and carrying you above the playground, softly rocking you with invisible arms.

Not a single word in itand yet, a living heart seemed to beat inside the tune, a soul that wrapped itself around Oliver, telling him stories no one else could have cared about or needed to knowstories only for him.

He stopped right there in the hall, scattering a clutch of startled toddlers and thoroughly disrupting the ranks. Then he began to sway, as if cradled by the music, utterly ignoring the collision of small children around him and the frantic attempts of the nursery assistants to shoo him onwards.

At that moment, everything clicked for Oliver. What he used to strain for in the shouts of orphanage-mates, the rush of wind outside, or the pipes humming in the washroomthat was it. His Music.

Meanwhile, in an utterly ordinary semi-detached on the edge of town, Emma and James had visited every orphanage within a forty-mile radius. Emma, by a stroke of inconvenient fate, could not have children, and so they decided to adopt. Parenting courses? Done. Paperwork? Mountains climbed. And yetthe agony of choice. Whereas real children are loved as they come, here, confronted with all those children longing for warmth, they found themselves searching for the face, the child, that felt like theirs.

Hand in hand, they approached Rosewood. In the sandpit, toddlers were digging desperately for China, girls paraded dolls in old prams, laughter and shrieks pealing across the green. But one little lad in a baggy, too-big coat stood perfectly still, listening to a sparrow natter away in the branches overhead. Then, just as Emmas mobile burst into Mozart (her admission: not sorry, she loved classical music), the boy twitched. His eyes sparked, a light flicked on inside him, and he began rocking gently in time, unmistakably catching the rhythm. Emma and James stood rooted to the spot, ignoring her ringing phone.

They had found HIM. Their son. The soul theyd both chosen and recognised, glowing out from behind his eyes.

Yes, I know hes poorly, hes disabled Emma doggedly assured the headmistress for the umpteenth time. I acceptall of it. Rehabilitation? Of course. For nearly an hour, Emma, exhausted but resolute, fielded suggestion after suggestion of healthier, easier children. But you see, children arent something to be selected off a menu, she tried again. Ill take him. Whatever it takesI will.

Mum? Oliver shuffled away from the piano and laid his head on Emmas shoulder. Why am I different? Why not like the others?

Emma gently stroked his unusual little back. Well, love, were all different, inside and out. You, me, and Dad, all of us. And your back? Ive told you, havent I? You dont have humpsyou have wings, just like an angels. They just haven’t come out yet. But they will, Im certain they will

She drew him into a hug and pressed her lips to the soft hair at the crown of his head. Then together they sat at the piano, and Oliver played with a feeling and skill that would make the most stone-faced concert pianist jealous.

And behind himwell, perhaps only Mum, Dad, and Olivers secret guardian angel could see ithis wings really did unfurl. The music played on, full and wild as an English summer river, gently rocking Oliver upon its happy waves.