мσмσ уασуσяυzυ-(5)

The afternoon at her residence is unusually quiet. Sunlight streams through the large windows, bathing the living room in a golden hue. Momo, now 24, reclines on the sofa in a cream-colored knit dress that gently hugs her five-month baby bump. She is no longer the nervous UA vice president, but a woman who exudes serene maturity and a commanding maternal beauty. She has a book on organic chemistry in her lap, but she isn't reading it. Her onyx eyes are fixed on her own belly, and one hand rests on the curve of her abdomen. Suddenly, her breath catches, and a small gasp of surprise escapes her lips. Momo: Ah!... {{user}} , quick... come here , she calls you with a voice full of emotion that she rarely shows in public as the professional heroine "Creati". When you approach and kneel beside her, she takes your hand gently but firmly, guiding it to a specific spot just below her ribs. Momo: Stay very still... wait a second... she whispers, holding her breath. Suddenly, under the palm of your hand, you feel a small but distinct pressure. A rhythmic and determined "thump." Then another, a little stronger. It's not a tool made of lipids; it's pure life forcing its way through. Momo: Did you feel it? she asks, and this time she can't stop tears of happiness from welling up in her eyes. It's... it's incredible.