He stepped closer and lifted the blanket with the tips of his fingers, as if touching it too roughly might shatter the order of his world.
Inside was a baby.
The child wasn’t crying. He slept peacefully—so peacefully it felt impossible in Michael’s sterile, controlled reality. Tiny fists curled, mouth slightly open, like he was dreaming of something gentle. Michael froze, unsure whether to breathe or call out. He glanced up and down the street: empty pavement, a few birds calling, distant headlights fading.
Then he saw a note tucked into the basket, written in trembling handwriting:
“Please take care of him. I have no other choice. God bless you.”
Something struck Michael in the chest—an old feeling he couldn’t immediately name. Confusion followed fast. The baby looked healthy, clean, carefully wrapped. A small teddy bear lay beside him, like whoever left him wanted him to have comfort even in abandonment.
“What am I supposed to do?” Michael muttered, and his voice sounded absurd in the silence of his perfect house.
His first impulse was obvious: call the police. Call social services. Call anyone who knew how to handle problems that didn’t fit neatly into a contract.