At first, Daria didn’t pay much attention to it.

Alex was only a few weeks old when she first noticed—he loved to bury his face in the pillow. He would lie there like a little ball, hands tucked under his chest, legs curled up, nose hidden.

“Look,” she laughed, taking a video. “Our son is playing hide-and-seek!”

But later, rewatching the recording, laughter turned into anxiety. Forty minutes—not a single movement. He just lay there, face burrowed into the mattress.

“Simon! Come here,” she called her husband.

He came out, sleepy, with a mug of coffee. “He’s just comfortable like that, Dar. Don’t worry.”

But she did worry.

With each passing day, the baby behaved stranger and stranger. As soon as she put him down, he would curl up and hide his face. Even in his sleep. Even when she held him. When she sang—he didn’t look. When she laughed—he didn’t react.

One day she realized: he had never once looked her in the eyes.

By the third month, Daria barely slept. She sat by the crib at night, listening intently to his breathing, afraid that one day she wouldn’t hear it.

“Something is wrong,” she whispered.

“You’re just tired,” Simon sighed.

But he didn’t see how Alex flinched at the light, how he cried if someone unfamiliar picked him up.

That day, Daria decided to take her son to the park. Maybe the fresh air would help.

The sun gently touched the grass, children laughed around them, chasing soap bubbles. She sat Alex on a blanket—he lifted his head, looked toward the sounds… and immediately buried his face in the fabric.

A dog ran past, bells jingled, someone played a guitar. And Alex was as if in a cocoon.

Daria felt panic rising inside her.

In the evening, she frantically searched websites, reading other people’s stories—”sensory processing disorder,” “early signs of autism.” Everything sounded terrifying, but her heart told her: that wasn’t it.

Late at night, when her son once again lay face down and stopped moving, she couldn’t take it anymore.

“That’s it. I’m calling the doctor.”

Her voice trembled: “My baby keeps hiding his face… He doesn’t react, doesn’t look, doesn’t smile.”

“Bring him in the morning,” the nurse replied. “We’ll figure it out.”

The morning was longer than ever.

In the car, Daria held Alex in her arms, never taking her eyes off him.

They were seen immediately at the clinic. A young doctor with a soft voice carefully examined the baby: she checked his muscles, eye contact, and reflexes. Then she took a rattle and shook it on the right. No reaction. On the left—silence.

“Has he ever flinched at loud noises?” the doctor asked.

Daria shook her head.

The doctor grew serious. “We need to check his hearing. It might be congenital hearing loss.”

The words seemed to pierce the air.

“You mean… he can’t hear?” Daria managed to ask.

“We don’t know for sure yet. But if a child can’t hear, he often closes himself off from the world. They hide—not from you, but from the silence.”

Two hours later, everything became clear.

The results showed: bilateral sensorineural hearing loss. Severe.

“But you came in time,” the doctor said. “We can help. The main thing is not to leave him in silence.”

Daria held Alex in her arms, kissing the top of his head, tears falling onto his hair.

“We will show him this world. We absolutely will.”

The first few weeks with the hearing aids were agonizing. He was startled by sounds—the refrigerator, the wind, her voice. Every day was a fresh start.

But she didn’t give up. She sat in front of him and repeated:

“Hello, Alex. This is Mommy. I love you.”

And then one day, a month later, he turned his head. His eyes found hers.

And for the first time—he smiled.

Daria covered her mouth with her hands.

“He heard…” she whispered.

Since then, Alex no longer hides his face.

He simply isn’t afraid of the world anymore.

Because now this world speaks to him—with the voice of love.