A few steps away, beside a closed storefront, a woman was hunched over an old stroller. Her blonde hair was tied back carelessly, loose strands stuck to her cheek. She wore an oversized coat, frayed at the sleeves. Her hands, pale from the cold, tucked a blanket gently inside the stroller.
Ethan blinked.
There was no baby.
There was an old teddy bear, wrapped as if it were breathing. The woman shielded it from the wind and sang with the tenderness of someone guarding something sacred.
Marcus felt his son stop. He turned his head for barely a second—and the moment he saw the woman, he dismissed her like an inconvenience. He tightened his grip on Ethan’s hand.
“No trouble, Ethan. Keep walking.”
His voice wasn’t cruel—just sharp, impatient. In his mind, the label appeared automatically: young, unkempt, maybe sick, maybe addicted… a “social problem.” He had donated generously at the gala. Signed the check. Done his part. He didn’t need to stare poverty in the face.
But Ethan couldn’t move.
The woman murmured softly, almost out of breath, “Shh… sleep, my love…”