They were wrapped in matching blankets, their tiny faces flushed red from cold and tears. Emily fell to her knees without thinking, snow soaking through her jeans. The babies wore delicate pink knit dresses, far too fine for this alley. Around each small neck rested a silver necklace shaped like a falling feather.
Beneath them lay half of a torn photograph — a woman’s smiling face cut straight down the middle.
No note. No explanation.
Only the cold.
One baby reached out, her fingers curling tightly around Emily’s thumb. In that instant, something inside the young seamstress shifted forever. It felt like a stitch pulled straight through her heart — painful, permanent.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered, lifting them against her chest. “I’ll hold you together.”
Four years passed in a blur of lullabies, feverish nights, scraped knees, and laughter that filled every corner of the shop. Emily named them Ava and Ivy. Ava, born minutes earlier, was thoughtful and dreamy, forever sketching castles and forests on scraps of pattern paper. Ivy was bold and fearless, climbing shelves and asking questions that made Emily pause.