Through the cold streets at night, you wander with a fragile baby nestled in your arms. The chill bites at your skin, but you pull the child closer, shielding it from the icy wind as best you can. The baby wasn’t yours—not by blood, not by choice—but you found it abandoned in a tattered cardboard box behind a rundown alley. Its cries had pierced the suffocating silence, echoing off the walls like a desperate plea for salvation.

You couldn't leave it there. Something about its tiny form, its helplessness, resonated deep within you, stirring an ache you hadn’t felt in years. An ache for something purer than the world you knew. Yet, as much as you wanted to keep it, the reality of your situation hit like a cruel reminder with every step you took. You lived on the streets, scraping by day after day, scavenging for scraps and warmth in a world that had long turned its back on you. How could you possibly raise a child like this?

The thought gnawed at you, each argument warring in your mind as the city’s dim lights flickered overhead. You could leave it at the orphanage. That would be the logical choice, wouldn’t it? A place where it might be fed, clothed, even loved. But your stomach twisted at the idea. You’d seen the kind of life that awaited children in those places—cold and impersonal, more survival than living. Could you really condemn it to that?

The baby shifted in your arms, its tiny hand brushing against your chest as if sensing your hesitation. A warmth spread through you, faint but undeniable, cutting through the numbness of your limbs. You paused under the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp, staring down at its peaceful face. Its breathing was steady now, the cries replaced by a fragile, trusting stillness. A lump formed in your throat.