A few steps ahead, near the shutter of a closed shop, a woman sat on the pavement beside an old stroller. Her blonde hair was loosely tied back, strands falling across her face. Her coat was oversized and worn thin at the sleeves. She bent protectively over the stroller.
Inside wasn’t a baby.
It was an old teddy bear wrapped in a faded blanket. She shielded it from the wind as if it could feel the cold.
“Shh… go to sleep, sweetheart,” she whispered.
Michael glanced over briefly, the way people do when they want to move past quickly. Homeless woman. Unstable. Not his concern. He tightened his grip on Ethan’s hand.
“Don’t stare. Let’s go.”
But Ethan resisted.
The way she said “shh” — the softness at the end — struck something deep inside him. It wasn’t just the song. It was the tone. The rhythm. The warmth.
He pulled free.
“Dad,” he said quietly but firmly, “that’s my mom.”
Michael went still.
The phone felt heavy in his hand. For a second, the world went silent. He slowly turned back.
The woman kept humming, lost in her fragile world. The streetlight flickered across her face. And there — faint but unmistakable — was a thin scar along her right cheek.
His stomach tightened.
“No…” he whispered.