“Evening, Lucas!” Old Tom called from his porch. “Good catch today?”
“Just enough,” Lucas answered, lifting his basket.
“You ought to get yourself a dog at least,” Tom suggested, not for the first time. “That cottage needs some life in it.”
Lucas smiled politely but said nothing. Maria had loved dogs.
That was reason enough not to get one.
The flames danced in the fireplace as he settled into his chair, another solitary evening stretching before him. The day’s routine played through his mind: watering the tomatoes at dawn, feeding the chickens, and walking the empty streets to his boat.
He glanced at Maria’s photo on the mantel. “Should’ve listened when you wanted children,” he murmured.
“Always said we had time. Now look at me, talking to your picture like you might answer back.”
Suddenly, a sound cut through his thoughts, faint but distinct. It was like a whimper or a cry carried on the winter wind.
Lucas lowered his coffee cup and listened. There it was again, more insistent this time.
Another cry, clearer now.
“Hello?” he called, but only silence answered.
His heart nearly stopped when he saw it — a woven basket on his doorstep, blankets stirring inside. As he knelt beside it, tiny fingers reached up, grasping at the cold night air.
“Dear God,” he whispered, gathering the bundle into his arms. A baby boy, no more than a few months old, stared up at him with big, curious eyes.
“Where did you come from, little one?” Lucas scanned the empty street, but whoever had left this precious cargo was long gone, leaving just a note in the basket:
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