Chapter 2 - The Whispered PleaThe darkness inside the box smelled of stale dust, damp cotton, and the unmistakable, heartbreaking iron tang of absolute poverty.
As the cold air rushed into the makeshift shelter, a sharp gasp echoed from the depths. Two wide, terrified eyes—surrounded by a face smudged with soot and pinched by starvation—blinked up at him.
It was a little girl. She couldn't have been older than eight or nine. Her hair was matted into tangled clumps, her cheeks chapped raw and stained with dried tears.
For a terrifying second, Nathan thought she would scream for help, or shrink back into the cardboard walls like a cornered animal. Instead, she slowly raised a hand, her fingers stiff and blue, and touched her own chapped lips to signal silence.
Then, she leaned forward. Her voice was barely a dry rattle, scraped raw by the elements:
“I sleep here every night... but please don’t let him feel cold.”
Nathan froze. His heart gave a violent, painful thud against his ribs. Him?
Before he could process the question, the little girl shifted her weight, pulling her small, shivering body away from a bundle tucked deep into the corner of the box.
May you like
Nathan’s breath caught in his throat.
Wrapped in a single, threadbare hospital receiving blanket that was far too thin for a mid-October freeze, lay a newborn baby. The infant’s face wasn't pink like a healthy newborn; it was an alarming, translucent shade of blue. His tiny lips were locked tight, his breathing shallow, erratic, and agonizingly slow.
