Ten years passed the way good years always do—quickly, almost too quickly.
And yet, through all that happiness, one quiet question never truly left me.
Who had chosen our station to leave Betty there… and why us?
Last Thursday, just after sunset, there was a knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” I told Sarah.
A woman stood on the porch, wearing a dark coat and sunglasses she no longer needed in the fading light. Her fingers were pale from gripping her bag too tightly.
“I need to talk to you about the baby from 10 years ago,” she said without preamble.
Every muscle in my body went rigid. Behind me, I heard Sarah’s chair scrape.
“Because I left her there,” the woman continued. “And I didn’t leave her to chance.” Her hand trembled as she removed her sunglasses. “I chose exactly you.”
The moment I saw her face, something clicked.
Rain. An alley. A teenage girl trying not to look like she needed help.
“Amy?” I whispered.
Her expression softened, caught between relief and heartbreak. “You remember me.”
Sarah stepped beside me. “Arthur, who is this?”
I didn’t take my eyes off Amy. “Someone I met a long time ago.”
It had been pouring rain that night. I was leaving the station after a long shift when I saw her sitting in an alley, perched on an overturned milk crate, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
I stopped. Gave her my jacket. Bought her coffee and a sandwich.
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