Echo of the widow Dimanche
The registrar stood open-mouthed next to the professor. Before them was a twisted unicorn's horn, an echo of that owned by the widow Dimanche, who sold water-cress in the streets of Paris. The patient was unmoved.
A young woman sat quietly in her hospital bed. Beside her the morning sunlight bathed her newborn son, asleep through the chatter of the cicadas outside. The doctor smiled. The baby was perfectly formed. “What is your baby’s name?”, asked…