Inside, amidst silk curtains and expensive perfumes, tragedy had found its home.
The millionaire’s newborn son, pale as snow, was barely breathing.
The doctors moved around the gilded crib, exchanging desperate glances.
There was nothing more they could do.
Medicine had given up.
The baby had only one day to live, and time seemed to stand still.
Outside, the maid wept silently, her trembling hands clutching her apron.
Beside her, her son—a barefoot boy in simple clothes, his face smudged with garden dust—watched with wide, frightened eyes.
He didn’t grasp the magnitude of death, but he felt the sadness that filled the air.
“Mama… why is the baby sleeping like that?” he asked.
She just lowered her head and continued to weep.
When the doctors left the room, defeated, the millionaire fell to his knees.
“No! Do something! I’ll pay whatever it takes!” he shouted, but destiny can’t be bought with money.
Then the poor boy took a step forward.
He slipped between the adults unnoticed, his bare feet touching the icy marble.
There was something in his gaze: a fearless faith.
“Stop!” the millionaire shouted. “You can’t come any closer!”
But the boy didn’t stop.
He knelt beside the gilded cradle and gazed at the small, motionless body.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still.
He closed his eyes and whispered a simple prayer, one of those that only pure hearts know how to say:
“God… give her back her life. Just let her smile one more time.”
The boy’s tears fell onto the silk sheets.
The air in the room changed.
The light from the window flickered, as if something divine had crossed the space.
The silence, once heavy, became light… and then, a barely perceptible sound broke the air: a sigh.
A nurse called out.
The baby moved his fingers.
Then, he breathed—once, twice—and opened his eyes.
The millionaire jumped up, incredulous.
“My son… my son!” he cried, hugging the little one as the doctors rushed back into the room, bewildered by what they were seeing.
No one could explain what had happened.
But the nurse knew.
She hugged her son tightly, and he smiled shyly, as if he hadn’t done anything extraordinary.
“Mom, the baby woke up. I prayed to God to help him.”
The millionaire, his eyes filled with tears, approached them.
For a moment, he forgot his pride and their differences.
He knelt before the boy, placed a hand on his shoulder, and said in a trembling voice,
“You saved the most precious thing I had. No amount of money in the world can pay for that.”
The boy looked at him and replied simply,
“I just believed.”
From that day on, the millionaire was never the same.
The faith he saw in the eyes of that poor boy changed his heart.
He had a small chapel built on his property, open to all—rich or poor—who wished to enter and give thanks.
And to this day, within those walls, the same prayer that was born that night can still be heard:
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