The wind bit through the alleyway, tossing scraps of paper and the distant scent of old grease from the diner two blocks away. Behind the rusting green dumpster, something whimpered—soft, hoarse, and barely louder than the hum of the streetlights flickering above.

Emily clutched the edge of her coat tighter, her fingers trembling—not just from the cold. The doctor’s words still echoed in her head like a cruel lullaby: “I’m sorry. You won’t be able to conceive.” Her footsteps had carried her here on instinct, down a path she hadn’t walked since high school, the alley a shortcut between memory and nowhere.

Then she heard it again. A cry. Not a cat. Not a rat. A child.

She froze.

There, huddled against the frozen brick wall, was a little boy no older than three, wrapped in a stained blanket, his cheeks streaked with tears and grime. His eyes met hers—wide, terrified, and already too full of the kind of silence no child should ever know.

Emily's breath caught.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at her with that hollow stare, as if he'd already learned not to expect kindness.

But in that moment, she forgot the ache in her chest. Forgot the diagnosis. The future she thought had just been stolen from her. Because right then, all she could think was:

He’s alone. And maybe I’m not meant to be.