The woman peered into the bag and recoiled in horror at what lay inside.
A boy gazed out the window, pestering his grandmother, “Gran, when are we going outside?”
“It’s too cold today, love. Another time,” the woman replied. “Besides, I’ve got too much to dono time for walks.”
Margaret Whitmore worked from home, knitting hats and scarves to order. She had a set to finisha hat, mittens, and a scarfbut her grandson wouldnt let up.
“Alright, alright, youve twisted my arm,” she sighed. “Well go, but only for a bit. Its freezing, and Ive my knitting to tend to.”
Outside, the streets were desertedeveryone had retreated indoors from the biting chill. The boy darted about while Margaret shivered, her fingers stiff.
“Come on, Oliver, back inside nowwell catch our death,” she called.
But the boy was unstoppable, tearing across the playground before vanishing into a maze of climbing frames. When he didnt answer her calls, she stepped closer, heart pounding.
“Gran,” his voice floated out, “theres a doll here. Can we take it?”
Margaret pushed through the plastic tunnels and froze. A handbag sat abandoned, a faint whimper rising from within. Her blood turned to ice. She unzipped itinside, a tiny newborn, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, its face blue with cold.
She snatched the child to her chest, breath ragged, and dialled emergency services with shaking hands. Paramedics and police arrived swiftly, rushing the baby to hospital while Margaret and Oliver gave statements.
“How did you find it?” an officer asked.
“My grandson,” she whispered. “If he hadnt led me there”
“Good lad,” the officer nodded. “You saved a life today.”
Margaret couldnt fathom it. “How could anyone abandon their own flesh and blood?”
The officer shrugged. “Seen it alldumped in bins, left on doorsteps. Nothing shocks us anymore.”
Before leaving, Margaret begged for news. The babya girlwould survive, though another hour outside mightve been fatal.
That night, sleep eluded her. By morning, she rang the hospital.
“Why dyou want to know?” the voice on the line challenged.
“Were the ones who found her,” Margaret said.
Recognition softened the tone. “Ah, the rescuers! Shes doing well. Little fighter.”
“Could we visit? Bring anything?”
“Against protocol, butfor you? Nappies and formula, if you like.”
The next afternoon, laden with supplies, Margaret and Oliver were led to the infant. The sight of herso small, so perfectbrought hot tears to Margarets eyes. From her bag, she drew a wide, dove-grey scarf, edged with delicate patterns. Shed knit it on a whim, never meaning to sell it. Now, she tucked it around the baby, whispering, “For luck.”
Months passed. The girl, named Sophia, was adopted by a loving couple after her mothers rights were stripped. Margaret and Oliver followed her progress from afar, their lives forever changed by that frozen afternoon.
Eighteen years later, Margaretfrailer now, but sharp as a tackpulled a chicken pie from the oven. Oliver had been cryptic on the phone, insisting only that she cook something special. A surprise, hed said.
The door creaked open. Oliver walked in, a young woman at his side.
“Gran, meet Sophia. Were getting married.” His grin was electric. “Feels like Ive known her forever.”
Margarets hands flew to her mouth. “Oliver! What wonderful news! Come in, both of youdont lurk in the doorway!”
As Sophia unwound her scarf, Margarets breath caught. The patternthose looping edges
“Lovely scarf,” she managed.
“Oh, this?” Sophia smiled. “Had it as long as I can remember. Never part with it.”
Margaret knew. The very one shed knit for a foundlings cradle. Fate, it seemed, had tied Oliver to Sophia long before theyd metthreads crossing in the cold, pulling tight across the years.
