Agatha was accustomed to the quiet, it had become her constant companion, as reliable as the fading sunlight that spilled through the curtains each evening. But that afternoon, the storm outside seemed to bring with it something new. Through sheets of rain, she noticed a small figure staggering along the slick sidewalk, holding something close to his chest.
She leaned forward, squinting. It was a boy, soaked through, no older than eleven, and he carried two tiny bundles wrapped in tattered blankets. His knees buckled as he reached her gate, and he sank to the wet ground, shivering violently.
“Oh, heavens,” Agatha gasped, scrambling to her feet and rushing into the storm. “Child, what are you doing out here?”
The boy’s lips quivered. “Please, they’re cold,” he murmured, his teeth chattering.
Without hesitation, Agatha pulled him inside, shedding her coat and throwing towels over the boy’s shoulders. She took the infants from his arms, their faces pale, lips tinged with blue, breathing shallow and uneven. She wrapped them in warm blankets, lit the fireplace, and boiled water to make tea and warm milk. When the smaller of the twins blinked up at her with hazel eyes, her breath caught in her throat. Those eyes were the same shade as Graham’s had been.
“Child, what is your name?” Agatha asked, her voice trembling.
“Noah,” he whispered. “These are my brother and sister. I, I need help.”
Agatha knelt beside him, taking his damp hands in hers. “Where are your parents, dear?”
Tears pooled in Noah’s eyes. “They’re gone. My mom, she was my aunt. She raised us since the fire destroyed our home last week.”
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