I used to believe that

Then I heard it again.

A thin, trembling cry.

I sat upright. “Arthur,” I whispered, already rising. “Do you hear that?”

He blinked awake. The cry came again, fragile but unmistakable.

I hurried down the hallway, my heart pounding. The sound was coming from the front door.

When I opened it, icy air rushed in so sharply it stole my breath. On the doormat sat a wicker basket dusted with snow.

Inside was a baby boy.

His cheeks were red from the cold. The blanket wrapped around him was too thin for the weather, little more than a decorative layer. His tiny fists flailed weakly as he cried.

“Arthur! Call emergency services!” I shouted, already lifting the basket into my arms.

Arthur did not hesitate. He grabbed the phone while I wrapped the baby in the thick quilt from our couch. Arthur took off his sweater and tucked the baby against his chest, trying to share warmth.

Flashing lights soon flooded our quiet street. Paramedics moved swiftly, their expressions tight with concern. They asked whether we had seen anyone, heard a car, or found a note.

There was nothing. No explanation. No apology.

They took him to the hospital. I stood in the doorway long after the vehicles disappeared, the cold creeping into my slippers.

That should have been the end of our involvement. A tragic story to recount occasionally.

But I could not stop thinking about him.

A social worker named Cassandra left me a number “in case you’d like an update.” I called that afternoon.

“He’s stable,” she told me. “Mild hypothermia, but he’s responding well.”

I called again the next day.

“And the day after that,” Arthur teased gently, though I saw the hope in his eyes.

No one came forward to claim the baby.

“If no relatives appear,” Cassandra explained carefully, “he’ll enter the foster system.”