It was 3:07 a.m. when the Safe Haven alarm pierced through the station, sharp enough to snap everyone to attention. I was already on my feet before my partner finished saying it.
“Safe Haven just activated.”
The hatch was set into the wall, its small status light glowing green while the heater inside hummed steadily. I reached out, released the latch, and opened it.
Inside, wrapped in a pale cashmere blanket, lay a newborn baby girl.
She wasn’t crying.
Most babies left in those boxes arrived in distress—crying, shaking, desperate. But this little girl simply lay there, her tiny chest rising and falling in calm, steady breaths.
When I leaned closer, she opened her eyes and looked straight at me with a quiet stillness that made my breath catch.
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