It was a dark and stormy night.
The rain lashed the rooftops with relentless fury, thunder grumbled across the sky . In the midst of the storm, a lone figure emerged from the shadows—drenched, breath ragged, desperation in her every step. A woman. She ran, stumbling more than sprinting, clutching something tightly to her chest.
She ran to the door of the orphanage and knocked—once… twice…
Her strength gave out. She collapsed, her arms falling limp, the bundle she had carried barely cushioned by her fall.
Moments later, the door creaked open. The caretaker—a tired woman in a nightgown, her hair a frazzled halo—peered into the gloom. Her eyes widened in alarm at the sight: an unconscious woman sprawled across the steps, a crying baby wrapped in soaked cloth.
She acted quickly, dragging the woman inside with surprising strength, then lifting the baby and cradling it gently against her chest. She laid them both by the fireplace, lighting it quickly to chase away the cold. She dried them as best as she could, wrapped them in woolen blankets, and watched the woman's pale face, hoping for a flicker of life. But the woman didn't stir.
Hours passed. The rain softened, turning into a gentle drizzle. The caretaker, reassured by the baby's rhythmic breathing and exhausted herself, locked the doors and went to bed.
The sky was pale with the first light of dawn. The caretaker rose early, heart fluttering with unease. She hurried down the hall, pushed open the door—and froze.
The room was empty.
The woman was gone. Only the child remained, lying in the crib, eyes wide and glistening. His tiny fists waved at the ceiling, and he let out a soft wail. The caretaker rushed forward and scooped him up, holding him close.
Then she saw it—tucked under the blanket, weighted down with a silver ring, was a note. The paper was creased, the ink smeared by damp fingers. Only one sentence was written in bold, trembling handwriting:
"Don't let them find him."