Nothing. Only the wind rustling and the baby’s cries growing weaker.
I crouched down, my hands shaking so badly I could barely loosen the blanket. The baby’s skin felt freezing. His cheeks were blotchy, his tiny body shivering. Panic hit me instantly. He needed warmth. Immediately.
Without thinking, I lifted him into my arms. He felt almost weightless. I pressed him against my chest, trying to warm him with my body heat.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I whispered softly, rocking him. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
I looked around one final time, hoping—praying—that someone would appear… a frantic mother, an explanation, anything. But no one came.
And just like that, the decision was made.
I wrapped my scarf around his tiny head and started running. My boots pounded against the frozen sidewalk as I held him close.
By the time I reached my apartment building, my arms were numb, but the baby’s cries had softened into small whimpers. I fumbled with my keys, pushed open the door, and hurried inside.
Ruth was in the kitchen stirring oatmeal when she turned and saw me.
“Miranda!” she gasped, dropping the spoon. “What on earth—?”
“There was a baby,” I said breathlessly. “On a bench. All alone. He was freezing. I couldn’t just—”
Her face turned pale, but she didn’t question me. She gently touched the baby’s cheek, her expression softening.
“Feed him,” she said quietly. “Right now.”
