Valerie lowered the foetus onto the cold, grainy surface of the ivory scale. Its eyes opened into slits as it writhed, kicking its legs into the air with soft shrieks. She stepped away and watched as the number on the scale flew into triple digits, then settled, then flickered once more before it finally held still. The babies she'd put on the scale usually occupied the entire platform; this one was barely taking up half. 

Just 443 grams. Valerie pulled out her notebook and penned the number down. Beside the number she wrote the time, then the date. She lifted the foetus and cradled it in her arms. No matter how many times she had touched them, feeling the warmth of these foetuses on her fingertips always startled her. Their pale pink complexion seemed to belie the very temperature of life. 

Photographs were next. She laid the foetus in the safety of the hospital bassinet, then retrieved the clinical camera from the drawer beneath the desk. Its casing was scuffed pale at the corners from years of usage, and it was cold in the way most things in this room were cold.  

She pointed the lens at the still-writhing foetus, aligning herself perpendicular to it to minimise distortion. Left hand on the top right corner, right hand on the left. Left leg on the bottom right corner, right leg on the left. She made an effort to frame its diminutive body appear larger than it was in person. The closer she zoomed in, the easier it became to pretend there was something ordinary about the ritual. I can do you this favour, she told herself. 

She took eight photographs in total, more than what was required of her. Four from above, capturing the foetus in its entirety at once. Two of its face in profile, chin tucked, lashes barely formed. One of its feet, toes curled so intensely as if it were bracing for something. And the last, a faceless picture of its abdomen cocooned in a baby blue blanket. 

Valerie was not supposed to be in this position. Her friend was still recovering from handling another foetus a few weeks prior. She'd been losing sleep for days, eventually reaching a point where she needed professional help from a counsellor. Her other friends had cited religion, claiming it forbade them from taking part in what they considered an unholy task. Whatever the reason, the bottom line was the same: many of the nurses simply didn't have the heart to handle this. 

Valerie flipped the foetus onto its back and repeated the process of aligning herself perpendicular to it. The shutter clicked twice. It had only been a week since she last photographed another foetus, even smaller than the one now lying before her. Having spent the past two years in the postnatal ward, she had begun to notice a pattern.  

It seemed the younger the mother was, the less likely she was to want to look at her foetus at least once. The previous mother, who was 19, had supported this theory, turning her face to the wall when Valerie had gently asked, twice, Because she had rejected the opportunity to see her offspring, Valerie hadn't needed to dress it, didn't need to do anything but process the paperwork and let it go quietly by itself. At least this one would have the dignity of being cleaned and clothed.  

She lifted the tiny body and wrapped it in a warm wool blanket before wheeling the bassinet to her desk. As the computer hummed awake, she began typing the numbers and words detailing the foetus's current condition into the hospital record. This form would serve as proof of its brief visit to Earth. Filling it out went relatively smoothly, save for a handful of fields that caused a mental hiccup or two. 

Infant Name: [NIL] 

Leaving this field empty made her heart lurch, as if it had just run over a speed hump quicker than it should have. 

Mother's Name: [Mary Hwang] 

She considered how the mother would react upon laying eyes on it. Would she smile or break down? Would she ask to hold it, or keep her distance? How many tears would she shed? How loudly? These were the questions that never failed to slip through the door of her mind. 

Transfer Destination: [NUH Mortuary] 

She wondered if the mother might still change her mind. She wondered what she herself would do in her position.  

Pray, perhaps. But prayer would not do much to change anything now. Resuscitation was no longer in the cards. Had it been born a month later, its little body might have been developed enough to survive outside the womb. But as it stood, the creature's fate had already been decided the moment it drew its first breath an hour ago. 

Earlier that morning, she had asked the mother whether she would like a keepsake of the foetus's handprints. The mother had quietly agreed. Valerie pushed herself from under the desk and walked to the washroom with a dry cloth in hand. When she emerged, the cloth was warm and damp, water collecting at the spine of her knuckles. 

Instead of lifting the foetus's arm, she brought the warm cloth to its little hands, which squirmed at the touch. She twisted the towel into a soft bulb and pressed it against the tepid palm of the foetus scarcely larger than the nail on her thumb. 

By the time she moved to the next hand, the foetus had stopped squirming as much. In fact, for the briefest instant, Valerie thought she saw it wincing in a way that could have been read as a smile. Her hands softened even further at the sight, to the point where it almost felt like nonsense. She continued rubbing each palm until the towel went cold. 

Returning to her desk, she retrieved an ink pad and a piece of speciality paper from the drawer. The paper thick and slightly textured, the kind usually reserved for certificates.  

To uncurl the foetus's fingers, Valerie stroked the back of its hands tenderly, patiently coaxing it into compliance.  

First, she pressed the ink pad against the ball of its palm, carefully rolling it around the pillowy surface until the ink sat evenly across the skin. Then, she guided its hand onto the paper, rolling it out towards the fingertips and flattening them out one by one, so that even the smallest prints would show. 

Then she repeated the process. 

And then again. 

By the time all of its hands had left their mark, there were three faint blue smudges that coloured the page.  

This is a work of fiction inspired by a real interview and does not represent a verbatim account of any individual's life or experiences. 

Illustration: Tammie Tan