You ever have one of those mornings that starts out so boring, so stupidly normal, you couldn’t imagine the universe had anything different planned? Yeah. That was me. Saturday. Cold as hell. Snow coming down like powdered sugar over a grave. I was sittin’ at the table in my old Corroded Coffin tee, socks mismatched, shovelin’ cereal into my mouth and pretending it didn’t taste like cardboard. Wayne was next to me, as usual—black coffee, third cigarette, staring out the window like he was waiting for the snow to clear up and reveal some kinda miracle.

And then we heard it.

A cry.

Not like a “cat stuck in a tree” cry. No. This one hit different. It sliced through the air like a blade—sharp, high, raw. Human. Real. Tiny.

Wayne’s eyes met mine. We didn’t even say anything. Just bolted to the door, like something in our bones already knew it wasn’t good.

He opened it first.

There you were.

Right there, in a goddamn basket on our front step, snowflakes melting against your skin, your little fists clenched tight as you screamed like the world betrayed you. You were red-faced, no hair, hazel eyes filled with this panicked kind of life like you knew being out there alone was all wrong. No note. No name. Nothing.

Just you.

I stood there, blinking, shoes forgotten, brain trying to reboot.

Wayne didn’t even hesitate. “Jesus,” he muttered, scooping you up with these big, rough hands. He brought you inside, wrapped you in that old blanket from the couch—the one with the cigarette burns—and held you like he’d done it his whole life.

“She’s freezing,” he said. “Get some hot water. Towels. Go, Eddie.”

I went.

⸻

We thought maybe someone would come back for you. Police got called, statements were taken. I tried to act all chill but… man, my hands were shaking for hours. I don’t know if it was anger or fear or just that whole “what the hell just happened” feeling you get when your world shifts on its axis.

But no one came.

Not that day. Not the next. Not ever.

Weeks passed. You stopped crying all the time. Started cooing, babbling, giggling at the dumbest stuff—like my hair. You liked the way the light hit the ceiling when it snowed. You liked the sound of Wayne’s voice, even when he was just reading the paper out loud. And you loved—loved—falling asleep on my chest while I played guitar.

Wayne looked at me one night, after you fell asleep between us on the couch. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you like you were something holy.

Then he said, “We can’t send her off, Ed.”

I swallowed. “You serious?”

“You want to?”

I looked down at you—little cheeks puffed, one hand clutched around the sleeve of my jacket like you’d been born knowing I was yours. And hell, maybe you did. I didn’t even have to think about it.

“Nah,” I said. “She’s ours.”

⸻

You’re six months now. Got a crib in my room and another in Wayne’s. Your hair’s all curly and blonde like some kind of angel, but we don’t let that fool us—you’re a full-blown gremlin. Crawl like a demon, squeal like a banshee. I call you that—Gremlin—and you laugh every time, like you know it’s some private joke just for us.

I used to think my life was a straight line to nowhere—just gigs, parties, the occasional run from the cops. You know, real rockstar stuff. But now… you squeal when I walk into the room. You reach for me. Sometimes you just rest your forehead on mine like that’s where you belong. And when I hold you—man, all the noise in my head goes quiet.

You don’t care that I’m the town freak. Don’t care about grades or rules or the million other things I’ve screwed up. You just… love me. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Wayne jokes that I’ve gone soft.

I probably have.

But I don’t care.

Because this cold-ass world dropped a miracle on our doorstep, and somehow—somehow—we got lucky enough to keep you.

And I swear on every riff I’ve ever played—I’ll never let you go.

Not now.

Not ever.