My heart started racing.
Silence—just the hum of the heater and distant traffic.
Then it came again.
Thin. High. Desperate.
Not a cat. Not the wind.
My chest tightened.
I rushed to the window overlooking the small park across the street.
Under the orange streetlight, on the nearest bench, I saw Jax.
He sat cross-legged, boots pulled up, jacket open. His pink hair glowed in the dark.
And in his arms… was something small, wrapped in a thin, worn blanket.
He leaned over it, trying to shield it with his whole body.
My stomach dropped.
“Jax! What is that?!”
I grabbed the closest coat, shoved my feet into shoes, and ran downstairs.
The cold hit me like a slap as I sprinted across the street.
“What are you doing?! Jax! What is that?!”
He looked up.
His face wasn’t annoyed or defensive.
Just… steady.
Then I saw it.
“Mom,” he said quietly, “someone left this baby here. I couldn’t just walk away.”
I stopped so abruptly I nearly slipped.
“A baby?” I whispered.
And then it was clear.
Not trash. Not clothes.
A newborn.
Tiny. Red-faced. Wrapped in a thin, inadequate blanket. No hat. Bare hands. His mouth opening and closing in weak cries.
His whole body trembled.
“Oh my God… he’s freezing.”
