They walked slowly, admiring the lights and listening to distant carols. Kelly chatted nonstop about Santa, cookies, and presents—until she suddenly stopped. Her small hand tugged at his. “Daddy…” she whispered. “Why is that lady sleeping there?” Michael followed her finger to the wooden bench inside the bus stop beneath a flickering route sign. A young woman lay curled up, no more than twenty years old, snow dusting her tangled blonde hair. She wore a thin, worn sweater that barely covered her arms, and clutched tightly against her chest—a baby.
Michael’s heart clenched as he stepped closer. The baby was wrapped in a frayed blanket far too thin for the brutal cold, his cheeks red, lips tinged blue, tiny fingers exposed and trembling in the icy air. Michael instinctively tightened his grip on Kelly’s hand and almost kept walking. It was Christmas Eve. He had his daughter with him. The city was full of broken stories he couldn’t fix. It wasn’t his problem.