When mommy ran back to the tunnels, someone with a dirty face greeted her. It was as if they hadn't washed their face since the day they were born.

Most people in the district looked like that. Almost every day they went to the nearby coal mine to work in exchange for some food.

It wasn't just about coal extraction. Any dirty work that needed to be done would be carried out by anyone who wanted to survive.

The underground shelter had access to water sources like aquifers and underground rivers, so the amount each person received per day was fixed, and no one dared even think about asking for more. Additionally, there were almost no clean water sources nearby.

Or rather, any clean water source was too dangerous to go to, as wild beasts gathered there to drink.

Therefore, everyone in the district always looked so dirty that no one could see their faces clearly. Mom, for some reason, seemed to be the exception.

I had never seen her work in the coal mine because she had her own way of surviving.

My mother didn't respond to anyone who greeted her. Apparently, she just wanted to return to her shack as quickly as possible.

The reality of this underground world was cruel: few managed to reach adulthood. I saw other children, some smaller than me, others barely able to walk, struggling against hunger and diseases. Most succumbed to unknown plagues or simple colds that, without medicines, became death sentences.

Pregnant women, as my mother had been, faced a particularly grim fate. Giving birth under these conditions was comparable to walking through the gates of hell, and the survival rate for both mothers and babies was frighteningly low.

My mother, despite her sweet and harmless appearance, always carried a bone knife while gathering. I saw her staying constantly on guard, her eyes scanning the shadows for potential dangers.

Despite the circumstances, she maintained an optimistic and talkative attitude. She told me stories, described the things we found, and constantly taught me new words. It was her way of making this dark world a little brighter.

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I responded as I could, with babbles and coos that, although simple, made her smile. Each attempt at communication seemed to light up her face, so I strived to improve my articulation, practicing silently when she wasn't watching me.

Language was a particular challenge. Without references for most of the words and phrases I heard, my progress was slow but steady.

At least I had managed to understand basic terms like "milk" and "food," essential for our daily survival.

My body grew gradually, but my speech capacity remained frustratingly limited. No matter how hard I tried, I could only emit basic sounds like "ah," "uh," and "oh." The powerlessness of not being able to express my thoughts and feelings weighed heavily on me.

One particular morning, a noise from outside startled me. Instinctively, I searched for my mother's face, finding in her eyes that unconditional love that had accompanied me since my birth.

I felt my facial muscles respond with more control than I had had until then, forming a genuine smile.

—You smile every time you see me —she said tenderly—. Did you like it so much? Am I so beautiful?

In my mind, the words flowed clear and precise: "Yes, you are. I love you so much." But my mouth could only produce a kind of infantile melody.

—My little one, are you singing? —Her delight at my attempts at communication was evident.

The satisfaction of seeing her happy with my efforts compensated for the frustration of not being able to speak. I wanted to show her my love in every possible way, even if they were as simple as these inarticulate sounds.

—I know you came from me, but you're too cute —she continued, bringing her face close to mine—. Who's so pretty? Yes, you are.

Instead of kissing my lips or cheeks, she found my toes peeking out from under the blanket. She kissed them repeatedly, causing tickles that I couldn't help but enjoy. Naturally, she proceeded to lift her shirt and took me in her arms to feed me.

I sucked her breast eagerly, noticing how my senses had sharpened. The taste of milk, with its subtle coconut touch, was more distinctive than ever. My eyes could better capture the details of her face while I fed, and my ears perceived every small sound around us with greater clarity.

When I was satisfied, my lips continued moving by instinct, although I was no longer swallowing. It was a reflex that, according to what I had heard my mother comment, would gradually disappear over time.

—Baby, grow healthy and strong —whispered Adelaide while holding me against her chest—. I love you so much.

Unable to respond with words, I concentrated all my energy in my gaze, hoping my eyes could convey the message that my mouth couldn't pronounce: "I love you too, mom."

I thought it with such intensity that I could almost feel the words vibrating in my small body, wishing that somehow she could perceive the depth of my feelings.