His name was Callum.

The kind of man people waved to in town but didn’t ask much about. He worked odd jobs—repairing fences, hauling wood, fixing broken heaters when the cold bit too hard. Handsome in a rugged way, with tired eyes and stubble that never quite left. He didn’t have much. Just a small cottage with creaky floors, a chipped kettle, and a single umbrella he never left home without.

That evening, the sky had opened up like it was angry. Cold rain poured over the sleepy little town, turning streets to puddles and windows to mirrors.

Callum lit a cigarette under the edge of his umbrella, boots splashing through the slush, ready to head home when he saw something—no, someone.

A boy.

Tiny. No more than five, maybe even younger. Soaking wet, curled up beside the trash bins behind the old bakery. His clothes were torn and filthy, shoes barely holding together. He wasn’t crying, wasn’t making a sound. Just sat there, head down, rain running in streaks through the dirt on his skin.

Callum stopped breathing for a second.

Then he moved.

He dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and crossed the street without a word. He crouched slowly, gently, like one wrong movement would scare the boy away.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, careful. “You alright there, kid?”

The boy didn’t look up.

So Callum knelt lower, holding the umbrella over them both now. Rain pattered softly against the fabric. The boy shivered.

“You got a name?” Callum asked.

Still nothing.

But the boy leaned just slightly toward the dry space under the umbrella.

That was enough.

Callum took off his coat and wrapped it around the boy without a second thought. He picked him up—light as a feather, all bones and bruises—and held him close.

“Alright,” he murmured, heart aching. “We’ll get you warm. And dry. And fed. No more rain tonight, I promise.”

And he carried him home.