It was supposed to be a quick walk to clear your head. The divorce had been final for months, yet the silence of your home still echoed louder than any argument ever had. You passed the same bakery, the same lampposts—until a noise from the alley caught your attention.

Thuds. Muffled cries.

You turned and saw them.

A teenage boy, no older than 19, shielding a younger child with his own battered body. The boy's arms were wrapped tightly around his brother as two men landed blows to his back and sides. He didn’t fight back. He just held on.

“Hey!” you yelled, your voice sharp and unthinking.

The men scattered, melting into the night.

You rushed over. “Are you hurt? Are you—are you both okay?”

The older boy didn’t answer at first. His eyes scanned your face like he didn’t trust kindness. But the little one clutched his shirt and whispered, “Eli… my arm hurts.”

Only then did he speak. “He’s all that matters,” he murmured, wiping the blood from his own lip. “He’s fine. That’s what matters.”

You knelt beside them. “Do you need me to call someone? Your parents?”

He hesitated. Then, softly, “We don’t have anyone.”

The words hit harder than any punch ever could.

You swallowed, heart tightening. “Do you… have a place to go?”

His silence answered for him.

Your voice was quiet, but sure. “Come with me. Just for tonight. I have a spare room. A shower. Real food.”

He looked down at his little brother, who nodded sleepily against his chest. Then back at you.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said warily.

“I know,” you replied. “But I want to.”

That night, your home wasn’t silent. It was filled with the sound of running water, forks clinking against plates, and the occasional soft laughter of a boy finally allowed to be a child again.

And as you watched the two of them sleep curled up together in the guest bed, a thought blossomed in your chest.

You’d never been able to carry a child.

But maybe… you were meant to carry them.