On a fog-drenched night, as the winds howled around the crumbling brick walls of Rosehill Orphanage, Miss Hopkins was going about her usual routine—locking doors, checking windows, and counting sleeping heads—when she felt it. A shift in the air. A silence too heavy. And then… a knock.
At the doorstep stood a crib.In the crib laid a young beautiful girl no older than seven months. Pale as moonlight, eyes glowing with an otherworldly light, and wrapped in a velvet cloak soaked with dew. No note. No name. Only a lingering trace of something unexplainable—something ancient
Miss Hopkins stood frozen for a moment, staring down at the infant swaddled in a blanket that shimmered faintly under the moonlight. The child could be no older than seven months—soft curls clung to her forehead, and her tiny fists were clenched as if grasping the last warmth of wherever she had come from. No basket, no note—just the baby, left on the doorstep like a question unanswered.
Miss Hopkins glanced up into the night. No figure in sight. Only the wind sighing through the trees and the faint rustle of leaves across the path.
"Who would abandon a baby in weather like this?" she thought to herself.
But nonetheless, Miss Hopkins scooped the child into her arms. The weight was light, almost too light, and the moment their skin touched, she flinched. The infant's skin was ice-cold—unnaturally so, as though she had been cradled by frost rather than arms.
"Poor thing," Miss Hopkins murmured, more to herself than to the child.
She hurried inside, shutting the heavy door behind her. The old orphanage creaked around her, but it was the silence that lingered—a silence that seemed to follow the child in like a shadow.
In the kitchen, under the dim flicker of a low-hanging bulb, Miss Hopkins warmed a bottle of milk. She rocked the child gently in her arms, trying to ignore the chill that hadn't quite left her fingertips.
As she held the bottle to the child's lips, the baby blinked—eyes wide, clear, and unnervingly bright. Almost… knowing.
Miss Hopkins smiled softly as the baby finished the last of the milk, her tiny lips releasing the bottle with a faint sigh. She dabbed the child's chin with a clean cloth, wiping away a drop of milk that clung stubbornly. The infant's breathing had slowed now, her eyelids fluttering with sleep.
"There we go, little one," Miss Hopkins whispered, gently tucking the child into the cradle by the fire. "Safe and warm at last."
She lingered, brushing a soft curl from the baby's forehead. Despite the fire's glow, the child's skin still held a strange chill—but her little hands were warm now, and her cheeks held the slightest hint of pink. She was beautiful. Fragile. And utterly alone.
"Poor thing," Miss Hopkins thought again, her chest tightening. "Who could leave you like this…?"
With a tired sigh, she stood and picked up the empty bottle, turning toward the kitchen—
But before she could take a step, a small hand caught her wrist.
She looked down in surprise.
The baby's fingers had curled tightly around hers—so small, yet holding with all the strength of someone afraid to be left alone. Her big, round eyes were open again, blinking up at her with a quiet plea. Not fear. Not confusion. Just… need.
Miss Hopkins's heart melted.
"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, kneeling beside the cradle. "You don't want me to go, do you?"
The child didn't make a sound. She just held on.
Miss Hopkins sank to the floor beside the cradle, cradling the baby's tiny fingers between her palms. "It's all right, love. I'm here. You're not alone anymore."
For a moment, neither of them moved. The fire crackled softly behind them, casting a warm glow across the walls. Outside, the wind howled, but in that room, a fragile peace settled.
Miss Hopkins stayed there, humming softly—an old lullaby she barely remembered the words to—as the baby's grip slowly loosened and her eyes fluttered shut once more.
She didn't go back to the kitchen right away.
She just sat there, hand in hand with the child, staring at the flickering flames and wondering who had left such a precious life on her doorstep… and why the child's skin still felt touched by winter.