The woman peered into the bag and recoiled in horror at what lay inside.
The boy gazed out the window, pestering his grandmother.
“Gran, when can we go outside?”
“Not today, loveit’s too cold,” she replied. “Besides, Ive far too much to do.”
Margaret Whitmore knitted hats and scarves to earn a little extra, and today she had an order to finisha matching set of a hat, mittens, and a scarf. But her grandson, Thomas, was insistent.
“Oh, very well then,” she relented at last. “Well take a short stroll, but mind you dont catch a chilland I must get back to my knitting.”
Outside, the streets were desertedsensible folk had taken shelter from the bitter weather. Thomas dashed about while Margaret shivered, her fingers numb.
“Come along, Thomas. Weve had our fresh airlets go home before we fall ill.”
But the boy was restless. He darted across the playground and vanished into the maze of climbing frames, falling silent. Margaret called for him, her voice growing sharp with worry, until at last he answered.
“Gran! Theres a doll herecan we take it?”
Stepping into the maze, she spotted a handbagand from within came a faint, pitiful whimper. Her blood ran cold. Lifting the bag, she found a tiny baby, swaddled in a thin blanket, blue-lipped from the cold. Clutching the child to her chest, she fumbled for her phone, summoning an ambulance with trembling hands.
The paramedics and police arrived swiftly. The infant was whisked to hospital, while Margaret and Thomas stayed behind to give their account.
“How did you find the baby?” an officer asked.
Margaret explained it was Thomas who had led her to ithad he not called out, she might never have heard its cries.
“Good lad,” the officer praised. “Youve done a fine thing today.”
Margaret shook her head, aghast. “How could anyone abandon their own flesh and blood? Have they no heart?”
The officer sighed. “Youd be surprised what some folk do. Babies left on doorsteps, even in binsnothing shocks us anymore.”
Before leaving, Margaret begged him to check on the child. He returned with newsthe little one had been examined, and though suffering mild hypothermia, would recover. “Another hour out there, though,” he added grimly, “and it mightve been too late.”
Home at last, Margaret abandoned her knitting. After such a shock, her hands were too unsteady to work.
The next morning, she rang the hospital, anxious for news.
“Why do you ask? Are you family?” the voice on the line questioned.
“No,” Margaret admitted. “But it was my grandson and I who found the baby yesterday.”
“Oh! Youre the ones who saved her!” The nurses tone warmed at once. “Shes a little girl, doing just fine. Youre heroes, you are.”
“May I visit? Id like to bring her somethingnappies, perhaps, or formula?”
Against protocol, an exception was made. The following afternoon, Margaret and Thomas arrived bearing gifts. The sight of the tiny, swaddled infant brought tears to Margarets eyes. She had brought with her a wide, grey scarf, edged with delicate patternsone shed knitted on a whim, not for sale, as though some instinct had guided her. Gently, she draped it over the baby, whispering a blessing.
In the weeks that followed, they kept tabs on the child, named Sophia by the hospital staff. The mother, feckless and heartless, was found and stripped of her rights. Soon after, a childless couple, smitten at first sight, adopted the girl.
Eighteen years passed. Margaret, now stooped with age but still sharp as a tack, bustled about her kitchen, baking Thomass favourite chicken pie. He had promised to visit, mysterious as ever, hinting only at a surprise.
When the door opened, Thomas entered hand-in-hand with a young woman.
“Gran, meet Sophiamy fiancée. Its like weve known each other forever.”
“Well, this is splendid news!” Margaret beamed. “Welcome to the family, my dear! Come in, dont linger on the steplets eat!”
The girl smiled shyly, unwinding a scarf from her coat. Margarets breath caught.
“What a lovely pattern,” she murmured.
Sophia nodded. “Ive had it as long as I can remember. I dont wear it oftenits too precious.”
Margaret knew that scarf. The very one she had knit all those years ago, tucked around a foundling for luck.
Fate, it seemed, had bound Thomas to Sophia long before theyd metand on that cold winters day, he had unknowingly saved the life of his own future bride.
