At the Narodni Front hospital, at 8:12 in the morning, three babies were born.

  Triplets.

  Wrapped in the same white blanket.

  All wearing the same number on their hospital bracelets.

  And only two of them cried.

  The nurse called out:

  "First one… healthy!"

  "Second… great, strong!"

  The third...

  Silence.

  The doctors moved quickly.

  They said nothing.

  The mother didn’t ask.

  The father stood by the glass, staring into the fog on the inside.

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  The next day, two baskets arrived at their apartment.

  Two pillowcases, two bottles, two toys.

  The third drawer — empty.

  Closed.

  Unmarked.

  People offered congratulations.

  "You’re so blessed."

  "Two babies! What a gift!"

  No one asked about the third.

  Years later, the children grew.

  The boy loved cars. The girl drew suns with smiling faces.

  In every drawing — a third figure.

  Faceless.

  The mother kept them in a folder.

  She called it: The Unsketched.

  Once a year, the father went alone to the cemetery.

  On the marble — nothing inscribed.

  Only a number: 3.

  And when someone asked:

  "How many children do you have?"

  She always said:

  "We had three. Now we have two.

  And something else I can’t explain."