Inside the stroller lay a baby. Small, pink-faced, bundled in a blanket far too thin for the night’s chill. No bag. No note. No frantic parent rushing back with an apology. Just silence broken by that piercing cry.
Clara froze beside the stroller. She waited. Five minutes. Ten. She scanned the stairs, the vending machines, even the dark tunnel where the next train would come. But no one appeared. Her throat tightened. She thought of her own empty house, the divorce papers that had split her marriage apart, her husband’s words ringing as if fresh: I need a family, Clara.